I shake my head, but before I can get a word out, you turn around and declare that no, we are not from around here.

His gaze turns to you, and something in him softens, though he tries to hide it.

“And who is this?” he asks no one in particular, looking around the room. When he talks, it’s like he’s speaking to an invisible person, someone behind me.

“I’m Pearl,” you tell him, walking over to him with three large strides and offering your hand. “And you are?”

Now you’ve completely unsettled him. He reaches a hand forward hesitantly, as if concerned you might have a communicable disease.

“Yes, yes,” he says in a quiet voice to himself, and as you take his hand and pump it vigorously, he tells you his name.

“Pearl,” I whisper in a gentle correction. “Not so hard.”

But the old man has clearly turned the corner into being amused. His eyes still squint, but there is a glint of mischief in them. “What brings someone like you to this place in the middle of nowhere?” he asks you.

“Someone like me?” you ask abruptly, in an accusatory tone.

“Someone small,” he mumbles. “Someone glittery.”

You laugh and say, “My Grampy. He’s going back to the town where he was born. And he’s taking me with him, to show me around. We might stay there forever.”

I wince, but I’m not sure why. Your honesty is sharp.

“That’s a good Grampy,” the old man says with astonishment. “And what town is that?”

“It’s a small town,” I interject. “I’m sure you haven’t heard of it.” But you jump in, as you always do.

“There’s a lake and a cabin,” you say, excitement flashing in your eyes. “Right, Grampy?”

I nod.

The man finally turns toward me. “Try me.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Try me. Where are you from?”

“Nysa,” I say. “We still have a little ways to go.”

He frowns to himself, nodding. “I know Nysa. Anyone within a hundred miles of Nysa’s heard of the place.”

“Really?” I ask. That seems strange to me. When I was younger and we left town, we didn’t have to go far before finding people who had never heard of Nysa their entire lives.

“It’s a wonderful place,” you say. “I drew a map of it.”

“That’s not what I heard,” he mumbles.

“What have you heard?” I ask, curious.

“Oh, all sorts of odd things. Something about the lake. Drownings. Heard recently the whole place is basically a ghost town.”

“No,” you insist, your voice chirpy and innocent. “Nysa is wonderful. A friend told me about it.”

“Your Grampy?”

“No, a different friend. Besides, Grampy’s not my friend. He’s my Grampy.”

“Of course,” he says, suddenly serious, but in that mock-serious tone that adults take with children. “Who is this friend?”

I sigh. Here we go.

“A woman with silver-white hair came to me and told me where to put everything on the map. Well, not everything. Some of the things she asked me to put on. She’s very nice. She cares very much about me and Grampy. And she needs my help. She lost something very important to her, and I’m going to help her find it.”