They stood by the back door. It was almost time for Ralph to leave for the day. Gently, he took the hoe from Dennis. He had beenletting him hold it, and he knew how hard it can be to give up what you’ve never had.
“What do you think it’s doing right now?” Ralph asked.
“Who?” Dennis asked.
“The creature.”
Dennis thought about it.
“It’s alone. It’s making dinner.”
Ralph nodded, as if this made perfect sense.
“You have a good night, son.”
Dennis’s eyes flew to him, and his face went blank with shock. He turned and ran away, to hide under his cot.
Ralph found him the next morning, sitting on the back step. The cook was inside, making breakfast. Sometimes she snuck boys into the kitchen and let them make pancakes with raisins for eyes.
The custodian stood above him.
“Should I apologize for what I said?”
“No,” Dennis said, holding his thin elbows.
“Well, what would you like me to do then?”
“Say it again.”
So Ralph said it again, and his voice was like music in the trees. It floated up to the window of the room where Dennis would sleep later, long after the custodian was gone for the day, and it caressed him there, on the glass where he had once squished live bugs. That seemed an eternity ago now.
“Son,” Ralph said, and said again, and again.
Son, son, son.
7
TheCoastal Heraldwas housed in a small white building, the paint worn down. The town of Wheel Stone was bigger than Eagle Cove, but not by much. There was a library, currently closed, and a string of shops with lights that moved in the wind, like ships onshore.
“Can I help you?”
The man behind the counter had a long white beard over a white bib stained with ink. His teeth were nicotine yellow.
“Are you in charge here?” Larry asked.
“Publisher, editor, and reporter in one,” he said.
Amanda pulled the article from her pocket, and the man put on his reading glasses and leaned over, inquisitive and smiling.
“I found this in the downtown Portland library,” Amanda said. “They only had a few years of your paper. I was wondering if you have anything more—about this boy, or the place he lived.”
“Ah, I recognize this.” He squinted over the article. “I wrote it. See here? D.B. That’s me. Dwight Bowman. Let’s adjourn to my office.”
His office was in the front of the building, next to the ancient printing press. The air was rich with the smell of ink, and for Larry it brought back memories of delivering papers as a boy, tossing thewarm bundles from the back of his dad’s van. The memory was mixed with the smell of Aqua Velva and his dad’s flannel shirt. And that was history, for Larry. It faded very slowly.
“Now let’s see,” Dwight said, turning to the metal file cabinets lining the room. “I keep my research in here.”
“What do you remember about the incident?” Larry asked.
