Mr. Perkins leans heavily against the handle of the old wiry broom, like a crutch or a cane. “Are those boys bothering you?” he asks. His face hardens into a protective look. The worried arch of his gray eyebrows, the downturn of his upper lip. He’s the closet thing I’ve ever had to a grandfather, and sometimes I think he worries about me more than my own mom does. “If those boys ever say anything to you that is less than chivalrous, you let me know.”

He worries they’ll call me a witch to my face. That they’ll throw stones at me like locals used to when they saw a Walker roaming around the lake. He worries I might be as fragile as ice—easily shattered with a harsh word.

But I have more of my grandma in me than he thinks. “The boys haven’t done anything,” I assure him, offering a tiny smile.

He sticks out his chin and says, “Good, good,” before shifting his shoulders back, fighting a tired, crooked spine. His left hand begins to tremble—as it often has in recent years—and he grips it with his right, to stop the shaking. “Haven’t seen anyone out walking this morning, boy or deer or lost soul.”

“It could have been earlier.” My lips come together, feeling foolish for even asking. For following Oliver’s tracks in the snow. “Maybe before the sun was up.” I try to imagine Oliver sneaking out from the house in the dark, without saying goodbye, and wandering down through the trees as if he were hiding something. As if he didn’t want to be followed.

He left, and a thin edge of hurt works its way under my skin. A feeling I don’t want to feel. A pain I won’t allow to dig any deeper into my flesh. I won’t let this boy unsettle every part of me.

Mr. Perkins shakes his head. “Sorry, not so much as a jackrabbit came by this way.” His eyes skip out over the lake, like he’s remembering something, and he scratches at his wool cap revealing the tufts of gray hair underneath. “It can be hard to find someone in these woods,” he adds, his jaw clenching, shifting side to side, “if they don’t want to be found.”

Fin trots off ahead through the snow past the dock—back on Oliver’s trail again.

Maybe Mr. Perkins is right. If Oliver doesn’t want to be found, maybe I should leave it alone. Go back to the house. I glance to the mountains where a dark wall of clouds is descending over the lake. “Another storm will probably hit within the hour,” I tell Mr. Perkins. “Maybe you should head back inside.”