“Doesn’t seem like it’s changed much,” I say hesitantly. “The old town still the same?”

“When did you leave Nysa?”

“Right after graduation,” I say, not wanting to get into the details.

“Summer of ’79?” he asks.

I nod.

“You really haven’t been back, have you?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“Some things happened back in the day . . .”

“Things?”

“Things,” he says, and that word is like a period, ending that conversation. “You need some gas?”

“Sure,” I say, though we have half a tank. I turn the car back on and pull in front of the pump. I move to get out, but he has already shuffled over.

“I gotcha,” he says, waving me back into my car. “I gotcha.”

Galen’s son is pumping my gas. We probably went to school together, but I don’t remember him. Everything about this feels so odd. I think of the old man’s words from the hotel—it does feel like a ghost town. I realize I haven’t passed a single car since we came over the bridge.

I hear the loud click of a full tank. He tells me the total.

“You take cards?”

His mouth scrunches up, twists, and he jerks his head back and to the side. “Inside,” he mumbles.

I turn to tell you that I’m going in to pay and see you’ve fallen asleep. Across the street from the gas station is a field. There’s a house in the distance, though I can’t see the road that goes to it. A grove of trees wraps around the gas station on three sides. I decide to leave you. I lock the doors.

Inside, he swipes my card four times before it works. When he hands me the receipt, he says something I don’t understand at first.

“I’m sorry?” I say, signing the receipt.

“This place isn’t no good no more,” he says in a nonchalant voice that doesn’t seem to go with the message.

“I’m sorry?” I say again.

He squints at me again. “Nysa,” he begins, but his words devolve into mutters. “You know, when we were kids, this was a good place to be. The town was hopping. Community. Stuff like that. The little fair that came around in the fall.”

I smile and nod.

“Not anymore. Stopped coming. Not enough people. And things happened out by the lake. Bad things. Around the time you left, and it hasn’t stopped since. Don’t go out there.”

He stands there as if he’s waiting for something from me, but I already paid. Everything is so quiet. Through one of the back windows I can see a squirrel jumping from limb to limb and then climbing onto an old barrel. From there it scampers into the shadows.

“You really should turn around, head out,” he says again. “I would if I were you.”

Our gazes meet, and there’s a sadness in his eyes, and regret.

“I think we’ll check out the town,” I say hesitantly.

“It’s all dead, Nysa. The whole island. Nothing’s left.” He clears his throat.