There’s no place like home.
—The Wizard of Oz

New Way, we soon discovered, actually meant NuWay burgers, and was, according to Drew, a Wichita landmark. Wichita itself seemed kind of confusing, with a highway running across the city, dividing it in two. Drew pulled up in front of NuWay Café, the name spelled out in white on a red and yellow awning. We suddenly seemed a long way from the yellow and red arrows of In-N-Out, with palm trees on the cups. CRUMBLY is GOOD! a sign on the window of the restaurant proclaimed.

We followed Drew into the restaurant, which was decorated with framed black-and-white pictures of NuWay and its customers through the years. It seemed Drew was telling the truth about the landmark thing. He took over the ordering for us and insisted on treating, and we emerged five minutes later with two brown paper bags that smelled delicious and were immediately dotted with faint translucent grease spots. We all got back in the car, and Drew drove us down the highway to Freddy’s Frozen Custard.

“Frozen custard?” I asked. Unable to find a spot, Drew had double-parked and headed inside to get us dessert. I pulled on my seat belt to give it some slack and leaned forward into the space between the front seats.

“It’s a midwestern thing,” Roger said, turning his head to the left to talk to me. When he did, I sat back a little—I hadn’t realized how close together our faces would be if he did that. “I discovered it this year. It’s like ice cream, but a little thicker. It’s good.”

“I bet it’s no Twenty-one Choices, though,” I said, referring to the frozen yogurt place in Pasadena, taking a chance that Roger would know it too.

He smiled at the name. “Love that place,” he said. I don’t know what he was thinking, but I was thinking about home, about California, and how it seemed very far away at the moment. Roger leaned forward a little and turned around more toward me. “Frozen yogurt,” he said, looking at me with a smile. “Such a California girl.”

I smiled back, and silence fell between us. I took a breath to say something, when the driver’s door opened again.

“And I’m back,” Drew said, dropping into the car and handing three plastic Freddy’s cups, red spoons sticking out of the top, to Roger. “Prepare to experience a Concrete,” he said. “Nirvana contained in a frozen treat.” He pulled out of the parking lot with a screech of tires and sped out into the intersection, throwing me back against the seat, causing Roger to slam against the passenger-side window, and prompting a cacophony of honking from all around us.

I felt myself begin to panic, and my stomach started to churn. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe, tried to block out the memory of a screech of tires and the terrible scraping metal sound, the feeling that I no longer had control of the car, the sickening spinning sensation and the way that time had seemed to slow down.

“Drew!” Roger said sharply. I opened my eyes and saw that he was looking at me, worried. “Could you slow down a little?”

“Why?” asked Drew, above the rap that he had cranked up.

“Just do it,” Roger said, an edge I hadn’t heard before still in his voice.

“Fine,” Drew said a little petulantly, but he slowed down and started driving more calmly. I felt my own heart rate begin to decrease and my breath start to come more normally. It wasn’t happening again. I was here, now. And Roger was here with me. I was safe.

You okay? Roger mouthed to me, and I nodded and tried to give him a smile. I’d thought that I was getting better at reading him, but I hadn’t considered until then that it could be going both ways.

In about twenty minutes, we pulled into the staff entrance of the Wichita Country Club and swung around into the employee parking lot, which was almost totally deserted. It was fully dark out now, and clearer than it had been before. There were still clouds in the sky, but they were moving across the blackness, revealing the moon and stars, then blocking them out again.

“What are we doing back here?” Roger asked. “You putting in some overtime?”

“I promised you the ultimate Wichita experience,” said Drew, putting the car into park. “I’m delivering.” He got out, pushed his seat forward, and offered me his hand to help me out of the backseat. “Milady?”

I looked away from the hand and climbed out on my own. Old me would have smiled and taken his hand and said, Why, thank you, good sir and maybe made a Camelot reference. I just stared down at the ground while Drew locked the door.

Roger held out his free hand, the one that wasn’t carrying our dessert, to Drew. “Keys,” he said. “It’s for your own good.”

“Good call,” Drew said, handing them over. “Where were you yesterday?” Drew led the way forward, and I fell in step next to Roger. Two of the cups were looking precarious, and I reached over and took them from him. He gave me a quick smile, and we hurried to keep up with Drew, who was a surprisingly fast walker. We crossed the parking lot and passed in front of what must have been the main country club building. It was imposing and white, with columns and bored-looking valets in red jackets, who were hanging out in front, smoking.

“Cheeks!” two of them called to Drew as he passed.

“I’m not here,” he said. “Or on the back nine. You didn’t see me.”

“Got it,” one of the valets called, and Drew gave him a salute as we walked by.

“They call you Cheeks here?” asked Roger.

“Word got out,” he said, glancing back to where Roger and I were power walking behind him. “It caught on.”

We had walked beyond the main building by this point and passed a large swimming pool that reflected the moonlight, a lone water wing bobbing in the shallow end. A little farther on, I could see deserted tennis courts and a practice wall with a white line painted across it to represent the net. The lights above the practice wall were turned on, and as we got closer, I could see that there was a girl there, playing. I slowed for a moment and watched her slamming the ball against the wall, and then returning her own hit as it came back to her, over and over again.

When Charlie had been playing, back when we were younger, when he’d been ranked and the hope of the local tennis coach, my father had painted the same line on the side of our garage, and on most nights, I’d hear the rhythmic smacking of the ball against the wall. When he quit two years ago—or was kicked off the team, I was never sure which—the absence of the sound was the hardest thing to get used to. It was like I kept listening for it, even though I knew it wasn’t going to come back.

The girl missed one of her own shots and walked to pick up her ball, stretching a little as she did so. She saw us and waved with her racket. Then she turned back to the wall and continued playing, switching to her backhand. She was wearing all-white tennis clothes, and under the bright lights, she looked exotic and out of place, a large moth in a spotlight that shone directly down on her.

Drew made a sharp turn to the right, and Roger and I followed, as he led us onto the golf course.

“Dude, can we be here?” Roger asked.

“Of course not,” said Drew, not slowing at all. “Have you a point?”

Roger glanced at me and shrugged, then hurried to keep pace with Drew. On impulse, I kicked off my flip-flops and carried them, walking barefoot. The golf course grass was dense and close-cropped, and it almost felt like I was standing on top of it, not sinking down at all. I dragged my toes back and forth across it for just a moment before running to keep up with the boys.

The three of us walked in a horizontal line across the fairway, empty open space all around us, the hills gently rolling, the woods close and dark on either side. It was utterly quiet, and very still, and none of us spoke as we walked. Every now and then we’d pass a sand trap, which seemed unnaturally bright against the darkness of the course. The traps must have been manicured recently; all of them had a complicated swirled pattern raked in. This made them look serene, like something I’d seen in pictures of Japanese Zen gardens, and not at all like the sources of great distress that they probably were. Even though it was dark out, we could easily see where we were going, lit by the course’s occasional floodlight and the moon, bright in the huge sky, the stars shining through here with much more ease now that there were no streetlights or neon signs to obscure them.

Drew stopped at the tee by the twelfth hole, which was, according to the sign, a par four. He sat down on the grass, took the NuWay bag from Roger, and started spreading out a fast-food picnic. I sat down as well, dropping my flip-flops and setting down the Freddy’s cups. When Drew handed me a burger, I took it a little doubtfully.

“Thanks,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic as I looked down at it. It was smaller than I’d expected, two halves in a white and red NuWay wrapper. It looked like a hamburger that had come undone—the meat appeared loose.

“All right,” said Drew, rubbing his hands together. He gestured to the items he’d spread out on the flattened brown NuWay bags. “Now, we have tater tots, french fries, and onion rings. Ketchup, mustard, special sauce—”

“Tater tots?” Roger asked, grabbing one. “Seriously?”

“I told you NuWay was the way to go,” he said. “They’re amazing. Now, to the burgers. Do not be frightened of the crumbly. The crumbly is good.”

“I read that on the sign,” I said, clearing my throat. “But, um, why?”

“It’s what NuWay is famous for. The burgers are loose. I don’t know why. You’ll have to try to believe.”

Drew was just looking at Roger and me, waiting for us to begin. I looked down at my burger and took a bite. It wasn’t bad. The hamburger was, as advertised, crumbly—almost more like taco meat. There were onions mixed in, giving it a little kick. I squeezed out a ketchup packet on top, and took a bigger bite. It was good. I looked up at Drew and nodded, giving him the thumbs-up with my free hand.

“Told you,” he said, picking up his own burger, smiling.

“Dude,” Roger said, looking up from his burger. “Amazing.”

The burgers disappeared fast, along with the fries and tots. Feeling full and strangely peaceful, I stretched my legs out in front of me and leaned back on my elbows, looking up at the stars.

“So,” Drew said, leaning back against his arms and crossing one ankle over his bent knee, looking at Roger. “You just happened to be passing through Wichita?”

Roger glanced over at me. “Well, kind of,” he said. “We’re driving Amy’s mother’s car from California, and—”

“We’re headed to Connecticut,” I said, feeling that this would simplify things, “eventually. Heading to Kentucky after this.”

Drew sat up a little straighter. “Kentucky?” he asked, shaking his head. “Oh, man.”

“What?” asked Roger, suddenly becoming very interested in gathering up the used ketchup packets. “I’m sure it’s a fascinating state. I like bluegrass. I like fried chicken.”

“You’re going there for Hadley,” Drew said matter-of-factly. “Come on, dude. I didn’t just get here.”

“Well, so what?” Roger said, stuffing the used napkins into the NuWay bag.

“Nothing wrong with that, exactly,” Drew said, leaning back on his hands again. “A man on a quest. A Don Quixote searching for his Dulcinea.”

“Drew used to be an English major before he decided philosophy would provide better job stability,” Roger said, turning to me.

“But keep in mind, my good friend,” said Drew, “Don Quixote never found his Dulcinea, did he? He did not. There sometimes isn’t much difference between a knight’s quest and a fool’s errand.”

Roger turned to me again. “I have no idea what he’s talking about, do you?”

“Hadley never listened to you,” Drew said. “Well, she never listened to me, either, but I wasn’t dating her. I’m just saying. Think about if you really want to do this, okay?”

“Sure, Cheeks,” Roger said with the air of someone who wants the conversation to end. But I could see that his expression was a little more troubled than it had been before.

“So. Amy,” Drew said, turning to me. “What has brought you here, in the company of this foolish knave?”

I glanced over at Roger, who was now lying back on the tee, his arms folded behind his head. “It’s a long story,” I said.

“Can you give me the abridged version?” Drew asked.

“Oh,” I said, looking over to Drew, “we’re just taking a little detour.” I saw Roger smile without moving his head, which was still tipped back, looking up at the sky.

“Well, that certainly was abridged,” Drew said. “That was like Reader’s Digest abridged. That was like TV Guide synopsis abridged. Can you give me a little more?”

Before I could respond, a roaring noise came from our left, shattering the stillness of the night. I turned and saw a riding mower cresting the hill one hole over. The person riding it was a guy, wearing big, DJ-style headphones, bobbing his head along to the music as he steered erratically around the course.

“Well, what do you know,” Drew said. “Here comes Walcott.” Drew waved, and the guy on the mower saw him, nodded, and steered over to the twelfth hole. When he got close to us, he killed the engine, which made the sounds of the cicadas suddenly seem much louder than they had before. He pulled his headphones back so that they hung around his neck.

“Hey, Drew,” he said. “What’s happening?” He climbed down from the mower and leaned back against it. He was thin and wiry, with curly blond hair, and seemed much smaller now that he was no longer sitting on top of the machine.

As I looked at the massive mower, it struck me how much my father would have loved to use it. Getting to mow this whole golf course would have been his idea of heaven. As soon as I thought this, I had to struggle to get my breath back. His idea of heaven was no longer so theoretical. Was he getting to experience it now, wherever he was? Was he mowing an endless lawn somewhere, listening to Elvis? Was he happy? I shut my eyes tight. How could he be, when we weren’t there? When I wasn’t there to give him Life Savers and make sure he didn’t get lost?

I pressed my hands into the grass, struggling against the tide of feeling that threatened to pull me under. It finally subsided, but it didn’t go easily.

“This is Derek Walcott,” I faintly heard Drew saying, as though from someplace far away. “Walcott, this is Amy and this is Magellan.”

“Roger,” I heard him correct. “Hey.”

I opened my eyes, glad for the camouflage of the darkness, and lifted a hand in a wave, not trusting my voice just yet.

“Did you guys get NuWay?” Walcott asked, walking over to us. “Got any left?”

“O rings,” Drew said, holding them out to him. “Go to town.”

“Thanks, man,” said Walcott, taking the container from him. “I’m starving. I’ve been out here for, like, two hours and I’m only half done.”

“I’ve told you,” Drew said, tossing him a ketchup packet, which whacked him in the forehead, “if you do it in the morning, it’ll go faster. You know, because it’s light out then.”

“It’s hot in the morning,” Walcott said, sitting down next to Roger. “We’ve talked about this.”

Drew shrugged. “It’s your funeral.”

Walcott’s head snapped up. “Now, that would be a good song title,” he said.

“It already is,” I said, without thinking. The three boys turned to look at me, and I felt my cheeks heating up a little. My throat felt tight, but I continued, feeling like I didn’t have a choice. “From Oliver! You know, the musical?” Clearly, they didn’t, as I got three blank stares in return. “Well, anyway, it’s a musical. And ‘That’s Your Funeral’ is a song in it.”

“Bummer,” Walcott said. “Still, we might be able to use it. I’m not sure we have a huge crossover audience with musicals.”

“Walcott has a band,” Drew clarified. “Please don’t ask him about it, or he’ll give you his demo.”

“You have a band?” I asked. Drew groaned.

“I do,” Walcott said, wiping his hands on his khaki shorts and leaving faint grease stains behind. “The Henry Gales. It’s like emo-punk-alternative with a little hardcore edge. But we also do covers, you know, for weddings.”

“Naturally,” Roger said, smiling. “That’s awesome.”

“We played a show last night,” Walcott said, a slightly dreamy expression coming over his face. “And it was so fresh. It’s what it’s all about, you know. You’re telling your truth, to strangers, in the darkness. That’s all. And when it works, it’s amazing.”

“Henry Gale,” I murmured, only half-aware I was speaking out loud. The name meant something to me, but I couldn’t remember what. “Why do I know that?”

“It’s from The Wizard of Oz,” Walcott said. “Dorothy’s uncle.”

“Walcott has a lot of Kansas pride,” said Drew.

“As should you,” Walcott said. “State traitor, going off to Colorado and abandoning the Hawks.” Drew just shrugged. I got the feeling that they had this conversation a lot. “But check it out. Just got it done last week down at Sailor Gerry’s.” He lifted up the sleeve of his T-shirt to reveal a black tattoo that wrapped around his bicep. It just seemed to be a sentence, but the writing was stylized and gothic, and I couldn’t make anything out.

“What does it say?” Roger asked.

“Ad astra per aspera,” said Walcott. This meant nothing to me, but I saw Drew shake his head. “It’s the Kansas state motto,” he said to Roger and me. “To the stars through adversity.”

“Wow,” I said, turning these words over in my head. “That’s beautiful.”

“Isn’t it?” Walcott asked, smiling fondly down at his tattoo, clearly thinking that was what I was talking about. “Gerry’s a talented guy.”

“Come on, Walcott,” Drew said. Even with the lack of light, I could see he was rolling his eyes. “Aren’t you taking this Kansas thing a little far?”

“No,” Walcott said simply, rolling down his sleeve. “It’s my home, man. You’ve got to have pride in your home. You are where you’re from. Otherwise, you’re always going to be lost.”

“You just think that because you’ve never been anywhere,” said Drew.

Silence fell, and I ran my hands over the blades of grass that, I now realized, Walcott had cut. I looked up at him, knowing how he felt. Until three days ago, I’d never been anywhere either.

But it didn’t really seem to bother Walcott. He shrugged and brushed his hands off. “Well, I should get back to it,” he said. “Thanks for the food. Nice to meet you guys.” He headed toward the mower and started to climb up, then turned back to the three of us on the tee. “You don’t have to go away to know where your home is,” he said. “Everyone knows where their home is. And if you don’t, you’ve got problems.”

“If you have to look any further than your own backyard to find your heart’s desire, you never really lost it to begin with?” asked Drew, a little sarcastically. I turned to him, trying to figure out why that sentence sounded so familiar.

“Yeah,” Walcott said, starting up his mower shattering the stillness of the night. “Exactly.” Then he turned the mower and steered it down the hill, raising one hand to us in a wave before he disappeared from view.

We all just watched him leave, the three of us looking where he’d gone, as though we were waiting for him to come back. Then Roger picked up his Freddy’s cup, and I passed one to Drew. I took a cautious bite of mine, and then another. The frozen custard was thick and cool and sweet, and felt soothing on my throat. It was richer than ice cream, but had the consistency of frozen yogurt. And at that moment, it was exactly what I wanted.

“Sorry about Walcott,” Drew said after a moment. “I probably shouldn’t have said that. But he doesn’t see that he’s just wasting his life hanging around here. And he’s never been anywhere, or done anything….” He turned to Roger. “Back me up here, Magellan. I mean, you have to leave where you’ve come from. You have to go and see stuff. And that doesn’t mean that I don’t know where my home is. That’s bullshit.”

“But,” I said, curling my legs up underneath me. I hadn’t planned on joining in this conversation, but I found that the words were tumbling out before I could stop, or rehearse them. “But what if your home has disappeared?” I thought of the Realtor’s sign, and the WELCOME HOME message that wasn’t meant for me or my family—none of the people who’d actually lived there. “What then?” Roger looked over at me, forehead creased.

“I guess then your home is the people in it,” Drew said. “Your family.”

“But what if they’re gone too?” I asked, looking straight ahead at the rolling greens and not at him or Roger, making myself say it, trying to keep my voice steady. “I mean, what if your family isn’t there either?” Drew glanced over at me, and I saw surprise and a little bit of pity in his face.

“Then I guess you make a new home,” he said. “Right? You find something else that feels like home.”

After a few moments of silence, as though we’d agreed on a time to leave, we all began to pack up the last of the trash, and when the tee showed no evidence that we’d been there, we walked back across the golf course. We were almost to the end of it before I realized I’d left my flip-flops behind.

“Sorry,” I said. “I forgot my shoes. I’ll meet you back by the car?”

“Want me to come?” Roger asked.

I shook my head. “I’ll just be a minute,” I said, and headed back to the tee. Seeing the open expanse of green in front of me, I broke into a run, feeling the dense grass beneath my feet and the cool night air on my face, feeling my hair stream behind me as I ran faster, past sand traps and over hills, until I reached the tee of the twelfth hole and had to bend over to catch my breath. I picked up my flip-flops and turned back, walking this time, feeling my heart hammer from nothing except exertion. When I passed the seventh hole, I heard the sound of the mower again, and a moment later Walcott crested the hill behind me. He pulled up next to me and pushed his headphones back again.

“Want a ride?” he yelled over the sound of the mower. I shook my head, and he killed the engine, filling the night with silence. “Want a ride?” he repeated, apparently thinking I hadn’t heard him.

“It’s okay,” I said. “Thanks, though.” Walcott shrugged, then reached back to pull on his headphones again. “Walcott,” I said quickly, before he left and before I could think about what I was doing. I rested my hand on the mower, which was surprisingly hot. “Do you like driving this? Is it fun?”

“Yeah,” he said, smiling at me. “It’s a good time. You want to give it a shot?”

I looked up, and heard my father’s voice in my head clearly, as though it hadn’t been months since I’d heard it at all. “There’s an art to this, my Amy,” I could hear him saying. “I’d like to see you give it a try.”

“That’s okay,” I said, hand still on the mower. “My father—” My voice snagged on the word—it felt rusty. I forced myself to go on. “He would have wanted to. He would have loved that.” I felt my breath begin to catch in my throat and knew that I’d reached the point of no return. I looked up at Walcott. “Can I tell you something?” I asked, hearing my voice shake, feeling a hot tear hit my cheek, and knowing there was no going back.

“Sure,” he said, climbing down from the mower.

I closed my eyes. I hadn’t said this out loud yet. To anyone. But now it wasn’t that I couldn’t say it—it was that I couldn’t not say it any longer. “He died,” I said, feeling the impact, the truth of the words hit me as I said them out loud for the first time. Tears ran down my face, unchecked. “My father died.” The words hung in the night air between us. This wasn’t ever how I imagined I’d say it for the first time. But there it was, like Walcott had said. A truth, told to a stranger, in the darkness.

“Oh, man,” Walcott said. “Amy, I’m so sorry.” I heard that there was real feeling in this, and I didn’t brush it away, like I had everyone else’s condolences. I tried to smile, but it turned trembly halfway through, and I just nodded. He took a step closer to me, and I felt myself freeze, not wanting him to hug me, or feel like he had to. But he just took his headphones off his neck and placed them over my ears.

Loud, angry music filled my head. It was fast, with a pounding beat underneath driving the electric guitars. There were lyrics, but no words I could make out, and after all my talky musicals, it was something of a relief. I placed my hands on the side of the headphones and just let the music sweep over me, pushing all other thoughts from my head. And when the song was over, I took the headphones off and handed them back to Walcott, feeling calmer than I had in a long time. “Thanks,” I said.

He slung them back around his neck, then turned to his mower and pulled down a black patch-covered backpack. He unzipped it and dug around until he came out with a CD, which he extended to me. It looked homemade, in a yellow jewel case. “My demo,” he said. I reached for it, but he didn’t let go, looking right into my eyes. “You know what my grandma used to say?”

“There’s no place like home?” I asked, trying again for a smile, this one less trembly than before.

“No,” he said, still looking serious, still holding on to his end of the CD. “Tomorrow will be better.”

“But what if it’s not?” I asked.

Walcott smiled and let go of the CD. “Then you say it again tomorrow. Because it might be. You never know, right? At some point, tomorrow will be better.”

I nodded. “Thanks,” I said, hoping he knew I didn’t mean just the CD. He nodded, climbed back up on his mower, started the engine, and headed off again.

I took a moment for myself, alone in the darkness by the seventh hole—par five—of the Wichita Country Club. Then I put my flip-flops back on and headed back. Drew and Roger were waiting for me where the course began and grass met gravel. Roger looked worried, and my face must have betrayed something of what had just happened, since he didn’t stop looking worried when he saw me.

“You get lost?” Drew asked.

I held up the CD. “Ran into Walcott,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. “He gave me his demo.”

“Told you!” said Drew. We headed out, and I saw that the girl on the practice court was still there, now practicing her serve, tossing the ball high up above her head before slamming it back to the wall.

Drew insisted on driving us back to the car, saying that it was on his way out. It seemed that while I’d been gone, Roger had been telling him about Highway 50, and they picked up this conversation again.

“You can’t believe it,” Roger said. “It just goes on and on, and you think it’s never going to end.”

“But then it does,” Drew said. “Wow. That’s a great story, dude.”

“I’m serious!” said Roger. “You think it’s going to last forever.”

“But nothing lasts forever,” Drew said, and then he and Roger sang together, “Even cold November rain.” I looked from one to the other, baffled.

“Seriously?” asked Drew, catching my expression in the rear-view mirror. “Magellan, get this girl some GNR.”

I had no idea what he was talking about, but I didn’t have time to ask, because a few seconds later, the car stopped outside the country club gates. I looked out and saw the Liberty, parked in a pool of streetlight. I was unexpectedly glad to see it again.

My house might be in the process of being sold by an overly friendly Realtor, and my family might be gone or scattered across the country, but the car seemed welcome and familiar and, mile by mile, more like home.

We all got out, Drew pulling the front seat forward for me. He extended his hand again, and this time I took it, giving him a small smile that he returned, broadly. Drew and Roger hugged and hit each other on the back a few more times, and then Roger walked to the Liberty, leaving me and Drew alone. “It was nice to meet you,” he said.

“Thanks for the NuWay,” I said. “Crumbly is good.”

“Didn’t I tell you? Do me a favor,” Drew said, slamming the driver’s-side door closed and leaning a little closer to me. “Keep an eye on my friend Magellan, would you? Be his Sancho Panza.”

I stared at Drew, surprised. My father had suddenly intruded into this conversation, when I hadn’t been expecting him. “What did you say?” I asked.

“Sancho Panza,” Drew repeated. “It’s from Don Quixote. The navigator. But listen. The thing about Magellan is the thing about all these explorers. Most of the time, they’re just determined to chase impossible things. And most of them are so busy looking at the horizon that they can’t even see what’s right in front of them.”

“Okay,” I said, not really sure what he meant. Was he talking about Hadley? “Will do.”

“Drive safe,” he called to Roger, who, I saw, was already in the car and nodded in response.

I had just opened my door when I heard Drew let out an impressive stream of expletives. I turned to see him peering sadly in through the driver’s-side window. “Keys?” Roger called. “Seriously?”

Drew sighed and pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Don’t worry about me,” he said with a shrug. “Go on. I’ll be fine.”

I climbed into the car, shut the door, and looked around its familiar gray interior and, most familiar of all, Roger sitting behind the wheel, smiling at me. “Ready?” he asked.

“Ready,” I said. I took Roger’s glasses out of his case. Seeing the smudges on the lenses, I gave them a quick polish with the hem of Bronwyn’s shirt. He put them on, started the car, and we pulled out onto the road. In my side mirror, I could see Drew waving. He continued to wave as we drove away, until he got smaller and smaller and finally faded from view.