I close the bathroom door and hear three things: you getting into the bath, Tom’s vehicle coming down the lane, and the distant rumble of the garage door opening. A nervousness rises in me.

I don’t know if I can tell him about what you’ve done.

He comes into the house carrying a brown paper bag of groceries, sets it down, and takes in the expansive interior of the house, almost like he’s enjoying the view for the first time. He seems . . . not happier, but perhaps less morose. The day before, when we arrived and even while he and I sat on the deck, there was something deeply sad about him, something that clung to him like a heavy coat. But now he is almost light.

“What a morning it is,” he says.

I am thinking the same thing. What a morning indeed.

“Were you able to find some food?”

“I haven’t gotten around to breakfast yet,” I say slowly.

“Did you just wake up?” He smiles, crossing the room and putting the groceries down on the granite countertop.

“I’ve been up,” I reply elusively.

He begins putting things away.

“How are your friends?” I ask.

“My friends? Oh, yes. They’re fine. They rarely talk about anything new—that’s why I like them. Every morning it’s the same old, same old—local roadwork, trees down, people who died, children living far from Nysa who are now a disgrace to their parents. You know, the sort of local news that means the world to no one except the dozens of people who live within ten miles of it happening.”

With that, he nearly laughs. I can see it start up around his eyes, and his mouth pulls back. For a moment I see the old Tom, but then he clears his throat and turns away quickly. He folds the empty grocery bag neatly and puts it in one of the cabinets.

“How’s Pearl?”

“She’s in the bath,” I say.

“A peculiar time to take a bath, right before we go out on the boat.”

I nod. Now’s the time. If I’m going to tell him about the rug, now’s the time.

But he interrupts my thoughts. “I saw she’s already drawn a map of the place.”

“A map?”

“Didn’t you see it? I found it on the coffee table in the living room this morning.”

I see the map there, as Tom said, spread out. I hadn’t noticed it before. I walk over and sit down on the sofa to examine it.

“Pretty incredible for a young girl. Have you told her all those stories?”

“What stories?” But even as I ask, I see how she labeled some of the various points.

The cabin where Grampy proposed.

The house where Grampy grew up.

Nysa Diner.

The Point where Grandma died.

“I don’t know,” I say, my voice lost and wandering. The map is completely covered in detailed identification, places labeled, some with events that took place there. It is a hand-drawn version of the first eighteen years of my life.