Tom nods hesitantly. “Yes. Soon after you left, it did seem inexplicable what was going on. A few teenagers vanished. Another one was found in the lake. Drowned. And another. And after that, an elderly couple. Because they came so soon after Mary, when everyone was still going out to search the lake for her, it started to feel like there was something ominous going on.”

“But you don’t think so.”

“I think teenagers run away sometimes. We did, for a summer. I think accidents happen. There were a lot of people at the lake who had never spent much time around water, especially during the search for Mary, so it seemed expected that people who weren’t strong swimmers might fall in. I think Gerald Mills is one of the superstitious few who would like there to be a deeper story, some other reason for the failing of this small town.”

“Nysa is as empty as it looks?”

Tom nods. “It’s dying, Paul. Twenty years from now, I don’t know if there will be anyone left. Those disappearances were the beginning. They frightened people off. Since then, all the young people have left—it’s a town of geezers. When we’re all dead? I don’t know who will remain.”

So I am correct. My hope is crushed. What will I do with Pearl?

“I have a breakfast meeting in the morning,” Tom says, an obvious attempt at changing the subject. “My weekly catch-up with some friends in town. You’re welcome to join us.”

“That’s okay,” I say. “I think I’ll take a slow morning here.”

Tom stands up. “I should be home by ten. We can have lunch out on the boat.”

I stand too. “Thanks, Tom.” We both know I’m thanking him for more than a boat ride, for more than a promised lunch on the lake.

He nods, and the shadows dance around us, congealing as he makes his way from lantern to lantern, snuffing them out. I follow him inside.

It takes me a little while to get to your room—I get a bit lost, but then I see it. Your door is open slightly, and I press on it, peek inside. The only light on is an antique lamp with a green glass shade and a golden pull string. You are lying on the carpet at the far end of the room, almost under the table, sleeping on your side with a book close to your face. I walk across the room, and the carpet feels like thick moss under my feet. I can understand how you fell asleep on that luxurious floor.

The book beside you is the third one, the one you hadn’t yet read, and I lift it carefully and place it on the small table. I lift you even more carefully and carry you across the room. You seem both light and heavy, both floating and weighing me down. Your hair is loose around your face, and your eyes don’t open, not even when I half drop you onto the mattress. I take off your socks and adjust the pillow under your head, and you cuddle deeper into it. I pull the thick comforter up over your shoulders, take one last look around the room, decide not to close the blinds, and walk out.