After the taping, the production assistant asks if Walter, Nicki, and Shawn will join Kate and Finn on stage for a photo. “We’d like to have a picture on the website, for promo,” she says.

As the five of them gather on the set, the assistant enters from backstage, followed by two crew members wheeling something on a dolly.

“Oh, hell no,” says Nicki, inhaling sharply.

A wave of nausea washes over Finn as soon as she recognizes what it is. The barrel. They are wheeling in the fucking barrel.

“Isn’t this great?” asks the production assistant. “It will really get people excited about the show.”

“Are you kidding me?” says Shawn.

“Where did you even get that?” asks Finn. What she wants to ask is, Who could have possibly thought, in the midst of everything, “I bet that crazy woman in a coma will want her whisky barrel back, I’d better go grab it.”

“We don’t know where it came from,” the production assistant replies, shrugging. “It just showed up at the studio one day.”

“This is fucked up,” says Nicki. Her mouth is pinched in a hard line, but there is a hint of something other than anger in her eyes, a vulnerability Nicki has never let Finn see before.

“Let’s just get it over with,” Walter hisses through gritted teeth.

They position themselves awkwardly around the barrel, which appears disturbingly unscathed by its trip over the falls. Finn can’t help touching it. The wood is rough under her hand, and the cold steel rings bite into her flesh. She glances over at her mother to see if she recognizes the barrel. But if she does, she isn’t letting on.

“Say Kakabeka,” the production assistant says, holding up a camera. No one does. Finn forces her mouth into a fake smile, and from the tension around her, she can tell everyone else is doing the same.

Everyone except Kate. Her smile is genuine. “I knew I could get a better photo out of all of you,” she says. Everyone whips their heads around to look at her. The flash goes off.

Later, as they are gathering their things and preparing to leave, Nicki grabs Finn’s arm. “Come with me,” she says. “I need your help with something.”

Finn raises her eyebrows. All she wants is a cold beer and the couch. “Can’t Hamish help you?”

“I need you for this.”

Finn follows her out to the parking lot, where a cold October breeze blows from the west, whipping dead leaves around in a vortex. Finn zips her jacket up higher. As they approach Hamish’s truck, Finn can distinctly see the top of the barrel sticking out of the flatbed. “What…how did you get that?”