They were each, in some way, touched by lightning—connected and transformed by the heavens.

In case you are wondering what became of them …

Kevin Richfield flunked out of the University of Florida. Returning to Chapel Hill, he landed an entry-level position with a marketing conglomerate. By twenty-five, he had four children he couldn’t adequately support. He regularly suffered nightmares in which he, not Becca Burke, was struck by lightning.

A few years after his tryst with Becca Burke, Christopher Lord, a.k.a. Apple Pie, fell hard for a student, Joy Parker, who was already married. Her husband, a bounty hunter, discovered the lovers together. He broke Apple Pie’s nose, his left thumb, his pointer finger, and three of his ribs. With Apple Pie’s eyes black and blue, his fingers bound, and his torso taped, his colleagues chuckled as he walked past, knowing that he’d picked the wrong student (or at least the wrong student’s husband), finally.

Mrs. Apple Pie remained married to him, telling her girlfriends, “I feel sorry for him.” He was, they all agreed, “pathetic.”

John Whitehouse died from a sudden and painful heart attack—leaving Winter a widow (of sorts) once again.

Winter spent her last years knowing that she was right about everything and everyone else was wrong about everything. She attended the funerals of the Mont Blanc townsfolk she hardly knew, and when someone happened to ask, “What ever happened to your grandson?” she said, “I never had a grandson.”

Mike Kingsley lost his fight for sole custody of Alice Kingsley. He and Carrie Drinkwater, civil to each other—for the sake of their daughter—shared custody. Carrie eventually remarried, this time to a pediatrician and vegetarian who played guitar for the band Pumpkin Seeds (folk and bluegrass). Alice Kingsley learned acoustic guitar.

When Tide went to prison, Paddy John wrote to him.

The afternoon Tide was released, Paddy John brought him home, saying “I don’t understand you” and slamming his fist into the refrigerator. Buckley urged him to calm down. Paddy John shouted at Tide: “You have to shoot up drugs? What the hell is wrong with you?” A tear rolled down his old cheek. “Goddamn it!”

Paddy John stared at his son. Tide stared at the floor.

With the sound of the ocean audible through the screened door, Paddy John walked over and took Tide’s forearms in his hands. “This is what we’ll do,” he said. “Stay here, just temporary, and get yourself together.” He patted Tide’s back. “You’ll get better. You got time.” Leaving the kitchen, he added, “You know I love you.” He turned to face his son. “You know it?”

Buckley said, “Of course he knows.”

Tide said, “I do now.”

Richard Martin played basketball and worked in the laundry room at a low-security federal prison in Dade County, Florida, where he served a thirty-year sentence. Occasionally, he wondered if Abigail Pitank had been telling the truth. The baby might have been his. He considered this notion in the same way one considers what to cook for dinner. It doesn’t really matter.

Joan Holt died in 1998. Nearly all of Galveston attended her funeral, Paddy John and Buckley among them. Sissy was inconsolable for a time, but the world was a mess. No denying that. There was still work for her to do, battles to fight. Joan would want her to fight the good fight. Idealists are an uncommon breed.

Mary Wickle Burke became Mary Wickle Burke McGowan in a sunny June ceremony on the sands of South Nags Head. Buckley was best man. Despite being barefoot, he still couldn’t feel the sand on the bottoms of his feet. At the ceremony, Sissy wore a see-through blouse, no bra. Becca was maid of honor. Aunt Claire, matron of honor. Surprisingly, there were fewer than ten people in attendance. Mary didn’t have many friends, and Paddy didn’t think to invite anyone but Sissy and Buckley.

Paddy John McGowan never stopped loving Abigail Pitank. In Mary, he found a first mate, a seasoned partner to spend his days and nights with, to laugh at, and to laugh with. He loved her, but not the same way he’d loved Abigail.

Rowan begged Patty-Cake for forgiveness, but she wouldn’t take him back. He continued to take photographs. He was learning to talk with his daughter. He was learning to listen. Patty-Cake took a Spanish lover, Paco, who was rightfully enamored of Patricia Heathrow. Amazingly, Paco—owner of a leftist bookstore, accomplished chef, and percussionist—equally charmed Patty. For the first time in her life, Patty desired a man as much as he desired her. It was unsteady ground, but it was so worth it!

In Wanchese, Buckley returned to work. He felt the same as before, except now he dreamed of Abigail wearing a key lime skirt. Vivacious. Tremendous. Not bloody, not hurting. Beautiful. In his dreams, she said, “I knew you’d grow up to be a good man. You were always a good boy.” She took his hands in hers. He woke knowing she was with him. She’d always been with him. “It was never your fault,” she told him. On the beach, he sifted sand through his fingers.

Becca moved in with Rowan on Cedar Island and immersed herself in her art. In the late 1990s, she and Colin Atwell traveled to Czechoslovakia to visit Terezín. They met one of the camp’s few survivors: Anya—a child then, she was a great-grandmother now, a woman with many friends and passions, a pianist. She told them about her girlhood; about losing her mother and father, her brother and sister; about her nightmares; about the ugliness. She told them about the young woman, Marta, who’d shared her bed in the camp. When Marta was sick, she gave Anya her bread. She told Anya to survive for the both of them. Anya said that Marta used to trace little hearts on her inner wrist (she showed them). Anya said, “Marta would tell me, ‘I’m glad that we’re together. I lost my daughter and you lost your mother, but now we have each other.’ When I cried, Marta told me, ‘There’s no reason for tears. You’re a beautiful girl, and you’re strong,’ and she wiped my tears away. She said, ‘When you’re free, you will make the world beautiful.’”

Anya told Colin and Becca, “I believed everything Marta said to me. I would survive for both of us. I knew it. I believed it. I had faith.”

Without hope … without faith … no one survives.