The man’s expression changes from whimsical to serious. His squint sets in. “Did you say a woman with silver-white hair came to you?”

You nod.

“She came to you, just like that?”

You nod again, clearly delighted at this conversation.

“Did she have a name?”

You think about it. “I don’t think she told me her name,” you finally reply.

“Did she . . .” the old man begins, his voice unsteady. He glances at the door, then back at us. “Did she come with you here, to the hotel?”

“No,” I say in a flat voice. “She did not.”

You give me that cute little glare. “Grampy,” you mutter before addressing the old man. “No, she didn’t come with us. But she said she would meet me there, in Grampy’s hometown. In Nysa.”

I sigh. You turn and glare at me again—my clear disregard for the existence of the woman is ruining the story. I nearly say, She isn’t real, but I bite my tongue.

“Would you both be so kind as to join me for breakfast? Seven o’clock sharp?” the old man asks in a hesitant, distant sort of voice.

I’m inclined to turn down the offer. I’ve been very tired lately, probably because of the disease sprouting a knot on my head, and besides, I’m not one to visit with strangers. A polite hello is usually as far as I allow such interactions to progress. But once again, before I can speak, you interject.

“It would be our pleasure.” You give him a half curtsy.

I nearly groan, but now the old man is walking off, and you turn your face up to me.

“Pearl,” I begin, but the woman behind the desk says my name. I turn, and she gives us our room key while listing the amenities. We pick up our travel bags and head to the elevator, all the way up to the sixth floor. We find our room and settle in, and although you have been so eager to watch television from your bed, within minutes you’re asleep.

I stay up for another hour or so. All the lights in our room are turned off. I pull the desk chair over to the window and stare up at the stars, take in the acres and acres of forest we drove through to get this far, and imagine the trees shifting in the wind, their shadows swaying.

I can’t stop thinking about what the man said about Nysa.

Drownings?

I had only ever heard of two.

Driving Away

Tom and Shirley and Mary and I became inseparable, spending afternoons and evenings anywhere but in our houses. Tom was the first to get his driver’s license, and that opened up a new world of exploration for us. How many nights did we drive long into the darkness, Shirley leaning her head against Tom’s shoulder while he drove, Mary leaning her head against mine in the back seat, our fingers entangled? How many times did we stop and park somewhere, take blankets up on the roof of Tom’s old car, tuck ourselves in against the cold, and stare at the stars?