I can’t shake the idea that I know this man. From high school? But that was a long time ago, and I can’t get a good look at him anymore—where he’s sitting, a shadow falls across his face.

“That man?” you say to me.

“Yeah?”

“He’s in league with the witch waitress. Together they rule the island of Nysa. You’ve been brought back here to overthrow their evil kingdom.” The whole time you’re saying this, you’re gazing out through the glass, out into the town.

I shake my head and sigh. The thing about you is, you don’t really know when to stop. When to come back to reality.

“Nothing happens in Nysa, not really,” I say unconvincingly. I remember that icy vein of fear we all felt after the drowning of Gillian Hudson, the rush of adrenaline I felt the night Mary saw the woman in the field, the way anxiety gathered in me when I saw Tom and Shirley paddling home without Mary. Those things happened. They happened here, in Nysa. How can I tell you that nothing ever happens in Nysa?

“I saw the woman again,” you say. “On the drive here.”

“The one with the silver hair?” I try not to sound dubious.

You nod slowly. “The one who helped me with the map. She was walking across the bridge as we drove over. She was coming here, to Nysa.”

Now, I know for a fact no one was walking that bridge when we drove across. They would have been impossible for me to miss. But I stay quiet.

The John Deere ball cap man stands up. He pulls out his wallet, retrieves a single bill, and lays it down on the counter. He pats the man wearing the loose tie on the back and walks out. The man in the tie shakes his head, clears his throat, closes his paper, and also puts some cash on the counter. He shakes the hand of the happy one who had made everything feel lighter.

After the man wearing the tie walks out, the lighthearted man stands up and seems to think about leaving but has second thoughts and comes over to you and me. His eyes are quizzical, his hands fidgety and restless. What I first mistook for glib happiness when he walked in? It’s more of a nervousness, a jittery sort of pep.

“I’m Gerald Mills,” he says, holding out his hand, which I shake.

“I’m Paul. This is my granddaughter, Pearl.” At the mention of the word “granddaughter,” he visibly relaxes. Maybe he thought I was a kidnapper or something. I don’t know.

“Hi, Gerald Mills,” you say. Your happiness and the enthusiastic way you shake his hand seem to bathe him in a second round of relief.

“What are you kind folks doing here in Nysa? That is, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“Of course not,” I say. “I grew up here and wanted to show Pearl my old homeplace.”

The man who came in last, the one who sits in the shadows, seems to shift in his seat. I can tell he’s listening to us.