“I always wanted one, but my dad was allergic,” he says offhandedly, but not quite. Just beneath the remark is a shadow of emotional accounting. A tick mark in the column where life has shorted him—or not life per se but Jack Ford.

As we move outside, there’s a dance of sorts as Caleb and the dog say hello.

“She’s really pretty,” he says. “Looks smart, too.”

“So I’ve been told.”

We drift toward my Bronco, where I load the groceries, and then the dog jumps into the back seat as if she already knows her place. My back is still turned when Caleb says, “I ran into Will yesterday. He told me you’re helping him with that missing girl.”

I spin to face him, more than a little surprised. Will and I agreed to my being incognito. “My role isn’t official or anything.”

“I see. I thought you were just passing through is all.”

“Me too.” I close the tailgate with a thump. “Are you really doing okay, Caleb? You can tell me.”

His eyes flit toward mine without landing. Then he says, “I don’t really talk about those days, Anna. It’s just way easier not to.”

“No, of course. I get it. Listen, do you want to grab a drink or something? My treat.”

“Nah, I have to get home.” He hefts up the groceries in his arms like a prop, an excuse. “Rain check?”

“Sure, yeah. I’ll see you soon.”

—

On my way out of town, I roll down the window and turn up the radio, Bob Seger’s “Against the Wind” filling the car, which feels more solid somehow with the dog stretched out across the back seat as if she owns it. I assumed there’d be a big adjustment period for both of us, but the dog at least seems totally relaxed and unconcerned.

Back at the cabin, she finds a place by the woodstove and waits patiently for her dinner. I cook half the salmon for myself, searing it for a few minutes on each side in a hot skillet as the oil pops. We eat together and then she stretches out near my feet, while I sit up with Cameron’s copy of Jane Eyre, looking for clues in the passages she’s underlined and dog-eared. I have little left in myself—I must have you; The soul, fortunately, has an interpreter…in the eye; He made me love him without looking at me; Are you anything akin to me, do you think, Jane?

The book seems to be a puzzle like everything else about Cameron, but can I solve it? Is the key to her dilemma and her pain here in the pages of her ravaged Penguin Classics paperback, or am I looking in the wrong place, for the wrong thing, grasping at straws?