“Who’s he?” Hazel pointed past Zadie and Finn to Joel, who was now outside the car and looking in their direction.

“That’s our friend Joel,” Finn answered. “Do you wanna play a trick on him?”

Juniper nodded enthusiastically.

“Okay. Here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re all going to turn and look at him at exactly the same time. Ready?”

“Ready!”

“And don’t smile,” Finn instructed. “Three. Two. One.”

When all five girls turned to look at Joel, he visibly flinched. “Very funny!” he shouted back, then ducked into the car to hide his embarrassment.

The Van Houtens’ house was the only one on the entire three-mile stretch of road, and even then, it was difficult to see through the tightly packed stand of alder trees. As Rowan had alluded, a fish-shaped mailbox was the first thing to greet them as they pulled over beside the dirt drive.

“Remember,” Zadie whispered to her sister as they climbed out of the car, “we don’t know for sure this Myron guy was the one who ran Mom off the road.”

“I know,” Finn replied.

“Just … play it cool, okay? I don’t want to freak him out.”

“Did you see his kids?”

“You know what I mean,” Zadie said brusquely. “Let’s try to keep the conversation as grounded in reality as possible.” Then, after a beat, “His reality, not ours.”

It was more of a cabin than a house—cedar-shingled with clumps of moss growing on its roof, a crooked stone chimney, and a large stack of firewood on the front porch. It was the kind of home that Finn thought would make a great setting for a slasher movie or—when bundled in freshly fallen snow—a heartwarming family drama about a prodigal son returning home for Christmas.

The moment Finn’s foot hit the porch steps, it was as if she had been struck by a wave. She staggered backward and steadied herself. Zadie put a hand on her shoulder. “Whoa. You okay?”

“Yep. I’m fine,” she assured her sister, although her voice wavered slightly. She steeled herself and stepped back onto the porch. Once again, she was rocked by the same invisible force: thousands of memories moving as one sorrowful swarm—hard-faced doctors, thrumming machines, pastel gowns, and waiting rooms—but also, a man carrying a sick woman down a flight of stairs, laughter as her head is accidentally bumped against a doorframe, a firecracker of joy made more acute by despair. A love story in three acts: beginning, middle, end.

Somehow she made it all the way to the front door, but couldn’t bring herself to knock, scared that the moment she saw Myron’s face, she would be moved to tears. “You knock,” she said, stepping aside so her sister could do the honors.