“No.” The bag was too heavy, but I dragged it to the car anyway, banging it against every single porch step. She stood, letting me struggle, and watched me heft it into the trunk of the Subaru, get in, and buckle my seat belt. I rolled down the window and let the rain in. “I’m ready,” I called to her.

That was the last time a parent told me I had to leave.

Hand in my pocket, I worked the knots in the chain. I could fix it, and then I would wear it. “Let’s go.”

Ten years messing with this delicate thing, trying so hard to fix it, and it’s still tangled. But not broken.

Chapter Three

JOELLEN DROVE OFF THE FERRY and onto the island, past a harbor full of white-sailed boats. The sun broke through low clouds, and the dark water sparkled. Over hills of farms and barns and houses, Joellen kept taking her eyes off the road to look at me. Monitoring my reaction.

“Beautiful, right?”

It was. Worthy of public television voice-over reverie extolling the virtues of small-town life. A world away from Seattle, no sidewalks, all these trees. I wished I could calm down and not just see but truly appreciate the beauty. I wished I could stop thinking of Zola’s disappointed face.

Joellen turned onto a dirt road beneath a canopy of cypress and Douglas firs, and then it opened to a field of tall grass and wildflowers and pines.

“Ohhh…,” we breathed in unison.

The house was white and small with a metal roof, in the middle of the field, rock-lined path to the front porch, and raised garden beds.

She parked, and we got out and stood in the quiet. Wind in the trees.

The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves.

Oh, John. If only.

“Muir,” Joellen said, her face turned to the sky.

Blackbirds, a moving shape of black wings racing silent circles above the house and field.

Joellen smiled. “Good sign.”

I nodded.

“Okay,” she said, face still tilted up at the birds, “so it’s only a mom, and just in time. She was a month from letting her license expire, but I begged her. And as always, it was your file that convinced her.”

“Just when she thought she was free,” I said. “Poor woman.”

“No,” Joellen said. “She’s lucky to have you. You’re good company.”

I looked down at the grass, tiny white flowers and a few weeds pushing up through it.

“The high school here is excellent,” she said.

“What colors?”

So many schools have aggressive colors, clashing in the hallways and on the lockers, maroon and mustard yellow, army green and gold; and all the stupid “spirit days” make it hard to disappear and be ignored.

“Blue and white,” she said. “Spartans!”

Okay. That and the blackbirds. Good omens.