Zadie looked at her questioningly, then rapped four times on the solid hardwood door. A few seconds later, from inside, came a muffled voice. “Did you girls forget your keys again?” The door was thrown open, and there stood a slightly disheveled man in his late forties. He had a five o’clock shadow and small, downturned eyes that gave him a somewhat solemn appearance. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who would run someone off the road—intentionally or otherwise—and judging by the surprised look on his face, he clearly wasn’t accustomed to visitors, either. “Oh, sorry. I thought you were my kids.”

“No worries,” Zadie said politely. “Are you Myron?”

“I am,” he answered tentatively. “How can I help you?”

“I’m Zadie. This is my sister, Finn.”

Finn caught Myron’s eye. In her head, she heard a man crying. The sound was clearer than any echo she’d had before, as though the memory were only weeks or days old. It was the closest Finn had ever gotten to mind reading and it made her uncomfortable. She held his gaze for only a second before she looked away.

When Finn didn’t say a word, Zadie continued with introductions. “And this is our friend, Joel.”

Joel waved. “I like your mailbox.”

“Oh, thanks.” Myron smiled. “Do you fish?”

“It depends.”

“On…?”

“Whether eels are fish or not.”

Before Joel could elaborate, Zadie cut him off. “Sorry to bother you. This is going to sound strange, but we’re looking for someone we think you might know.”

“Well, it’s not a long list, so that should be easy.” He stepped aside, holding the door open for them. “Come on in.”

Zadie and Joel followed him inside, but Finn hung back. She could almost see the memories inside the house, long gossamer threads drifting through space like jellyfish tendrils. To enter, she would have to use all her willpower to resist them or risk going catatonic in this stranger’s home. She took a deep breath, imagined a protective glass bubble around her mind, and stepped over the threshold.

The inside of Myron’s home looked less like a Christmas movie set and more like what it actually was: a home. It had low plaster ceilings, wood-paneled walls, sofas draped in rumpled plaid slipcovers, and an oval cotton rug that had begun to unravel on one end. A potbelly stove squatted in the corner of the living room, with several damp items of girls’ clothing draped over its stovepipe. On the wall above hung a mounted largemouth bass—a real one, not the singing kind—along with family photos, some of which also prominently featured large fish.

“Sorry about the mess,” Myron said, making a show of picking up food wrappers that had been left on the dining table. “I try to keep it clean, but with three girls, it’s hard.”