She grinned. "You're the one trying too hard, Eddie," she said. "Eddie, do you prefer Eddie or Ed?"

He crossed his arms over his chest. "My name is Mr. Hendricks," he said.

"Eddie, I know your little secret," she said.

"We've never talked before," he said. "How could you know anything about me?"

"I know about your wife," she said.

His eyebrows rose slightly. "You don’t know me," he said. "This is all part of your act, Amber."

He stepped up to the front door and peered through the peephole. The flickering fluorescent lights cast a blue sheen over the hallway. "Where are you?" he asked.

"Home," she said.

"Are you in bed?" he asked.

"I've been up since I left your apartment," she said. "I can’t sleep."

He locked the deadbolt on the door.

"My husband is back," she said. "Goodbye, Vincent."

"You left your book," he said, but she had already disconnected.

He felt her bosom rise against his abdomen. He breathed in her perfume, a tart floral scent that failed to mask the skunky odor of pot. He took her in, her short brown hair and her large and slightly bulging eyes. "You look beautiful," he said, as she released him.

"You're sweet," she said, smiling.

"You haven't changed at all," he said.

"Now you're bull-shitting me," she said. "I'm fatter, and you know it."

He shook his head. "I swear you haven't changed since Lincoln," he said.

Ned and Marissa walked onto the deck. Stars pierced the night sky, and a cool wind rocked the branches of the trees in the forest. They sat on the bench under the dining room window, silhouetted by the dining room lights. "I'll remind Rick to pick you up tomorrow," she said.

Ned was looking at the woods. There were things moving among the trees, deer or something else. "If you need anything else, anything at all," she said, "don't be afraid to ask."

"Marissa," he said, facing her, "you've been good to me."

She put her hand on his knee. "You know," she said, "you don't have to leave tomorrow."

Thickets of red and yellow deciduous trees carpeted the hills that rolled down the slope away from the mountain. He took a deep breath, savoring the smell of pine in the air. He set the backpack on the ground. In the backpack was the urn, with its silver top hanging out above the zipper. He removed his loafers, tossing them in the backseat of the sedan. He laced up his hiking boots and put on a light jacket over his t-shirt.

The cellphone vibrated in the car cup holder. He leaned in the car to fetch it. "Marty," said the voice on the other end, as he raised the cellphone to his ear. "Where are you now?"

The clerk's eyes narrowed on him. Scott looked straight back at him. The clerk checked out the cigarettes and the lighter. He put them in a white plastic bag with the metal saw. "Give your mother my best wishes now," said the clerk.

"Sure," said Scott, grabbing the bag off the counter.

"I can't believe you lied to him," said Louie, as they walked outside.

"I can't believe it worked," said Scott. He tore the plastic wrap off the pack of Speed Lights. He lit a cigarette with the neon orange plastic lighter. He took a draw from it and exhaled smoke through his nostrils.

She blushed. "Will you be upset," she said, "if I say that I like you?"

"Not in the least," he said, "but the heart is a serious matter. If you desire my affection in return, you must promise me that you are mine, your body, your spirit, your soul, your heart, forever."

"I promise," she said. "I do."

"Then I am yours always," he said.

She pulled on her hair. "Do you have a cellphone?" she asked.

"Madi," he said, “I must ask a very special question before we continue our conversation. I do not say it to shock, only to know you better. May I ask this question?"

"You may," she said.

"Have you been intimate with a boy?" he asked.

Abigail leaned forward and adjusted her glasses. In the faded Polaroid, a girl's body lay curled up in a sandy ditch. Her white shorts were covered with dirt and dried blood. Her head was twisted into an unnatural position. Her mouth was open, and a few of her front teeth were missing. She wore a single red sandal on her right foot. Abigail covered her mouth with her right hand. "Oh, no," she said.

"I kept telling myself it wasn't Ellen," I said. "I told myself it was some other girl, some other girl in that ditch. Not my Ellen. But I remembered that night at Two Acres and the red sandal in the driveway."

Abigail picked the photograph off the coffee table with one hand, and kept the other tightly cupped over her mouth.

"I want to show you something," said Earl. He placed a cardboard box on the desk in the back. "For ten years," said Earl, "this is all I had." He scooped up a handful of photographs.

Adam walked over to him. He looked in the box. There were hundreds of old Polaroid photographs of his mother, of Jeb, of him. Adam put his hands into his pockets.

"When you don't have something for so long," said Earl, "you start forgetting you ever had it." He dropped the photographs in the box.

"Why'd you leave?" asked Adam.

The sun had set, and the kids were in their bedrooms. Linda was pacing back and forth in the living room in her bathrobe. Her cellphone lay on the coffee table. As she walked past the coffee table for the fortieth time, she picked up the cellphone. She dialed his number, and after nearly two minutes, he answered with "Linda, do you know how late it is?"

"I know you don't love me anymore, Edward," she said, and she was crying, "but I don't think I'm strong enough to go through this alone."

After a brief delay, he asked, "What's happened?"

"Amy's gone," she said, placing her free hand on her forehead.

The fire had long gone out in the fireplace of the Black Bird Café. On a black leather sofa, an old woman sat, staring out the coffee shop window at the people walking down the street. Stan took a seat at a small round table by the fireplace and removed his trench coat. He placed it on the back of a wooden chair. Anna, a petite woman with large brown eyes, removed her gray cardigan before taking a seat. He looked over her shoulder through the coffee shop window. Outside, a fine gray mist obscured the buildings across the street, and a pale streetlight flickered. Gray figures with black umbrellas marched down the sidewalk past the streetlight.

A barista dropped off their drinks at their table. Anna removed the lid from her cup and added cream to her drink. "I tried to call you yesterday," she said.

Stan raised his cup to his lips. "I know," he said, and took a drink.

A few minutes later, Ted joined Martha in the kitchen. She was standing near the counter with her arms crossed over her chest. She wore a pair of glasses with thick lenses, which magnified her eyes. Ted's eyes narrowed on her. "I don’t have time for this," he said, and he made for the front door.

"Theodore Alexander Rolland," she said, as he reached for the doorknob.

He faced her. "What is it, Martha?" he asked.

"I don't expect much from you," she said, "I really don’t."

"Don't start this again," he said.

"She's dying, Theodore," she whispered.

"I don't have the time for this," he said.

"Don't make this about you," she said. "Would it kill you to help me change her sheets once in a while? She's your mother for Christ's sake."

Evelyn wiped her face with a napkin and looked at Marlene. "I didn't know you knew Max too," she said.

"We were acquaintances," said Max, taking a seat.

"How can you say a thing like that?" asked Marlene, her eyes widening.

"I don't think we should get into it," said Max.

"Now I have to know," said Evelyn.

Marlene drained her glass of red wine. She tapped the empty glass on the table. "We were lovers," she said.

Evelyn's eyes widened.

Eugene sipped hot chocolate, his eyes fixed on his hand holding the cup. His hand was shaking. "When I was driving out here," he said, "I kept thinking about all the things I wanted to say. I thought I'd have so many things to say."

"What things?" she asked, looking over her shoulder at him.

"I don't know anymore," he said.

"People change, you know," she said.

"Yeah," he said, "like you did with Dad."

She knocked a dish from the counter into the sink. It clanked against the other dishes in the sink. "Genie," she said, turning around. "I'll always love your father," she said. "You know that, don't you?"

"Mom," he asked, standing, "why are you doing this?"

Bill and Shirley held hands as they walked on the gravel trail around the lake. She wore a white sweater and dress pants, and he wore a baseball hat and heavy construction pants. They halted at the dock. A silver mist lay over the water. "Did I ever tell you about my father?" he asked.

"You've never talked about him," she said.

"My father was a proud man," he said, "hardworking and independent. He smoked like a chimney and drank like a fish. That was my father."

He led her onto the dock. Beneath the worn planks, the gray lake water lapped the posts. The breeze tossed her silver hair as she looked out at the lake.

"When his sickness started," he said, "my mother and I did what we could. We kept him comfortable."

The mist over the lake began to drift away. She looked for the swans. On the far side of the lake, they glided through the mist, flashes of white in the gray.