Page 170 of Under Story

A long-haired boy in black nail polish extends his hand.

“I’m Zachary,” he says.

Laurel throws her arms around each person in turn. With the sun fanning out behind them, they look like a team of angels.

“Wow,” says Eli. “This is…”

“More than you bargained for? Don’t worry,” Nita says. “Everyone is up to speed. When we got your alert, Louis messaged me on AIM. The four of us met at the Greyhound stop in Yuma.”

Laurel looks from Nita to Louis. “What did she tell you?”

“The truth,” Louis says. “The two of you are aliens, and you probably want us to help you get home.”

—

Laurel leads the group to the kitchen. Clare sits in the breakfast nook with a cup of coffee and the paper. Pete is making pancakes by himself for the first time. Aside from a spilled hill of baking powder, he seems to be managing well.

“Laurel? I thought you were still asleep.” Clare sets the paper down. “And who are all these people?”

Laurel introduces them as her friends from Antarctica.

“Ms. Salter, these are for you,” Louis says, presenting a trio of sunflowers.

Clare seems to find the flowers familiar. She looks behind Louis, into her garden, where three of her own stalks are headless.

“They took a Greyhound cross-country to surprise us. Can they stay here?” Laurel asks. “Just for a little bit?”

“All of them?” asks Clare.

Laurel turns to Pete. “Dad?”

“Excuse me,” Clare says. “You can’t just ask your father.”

“Why not?” says Pete. “Don’t I have a say here?”

Though his tone is light, it contains an undercurrent of challenge. Pete’s development, in middle age, has been even more rapid than Silas’s. He’s begun to exert himself with Clare, testing his authority.

“If they’re willing to sleep in Laurel’s room, I don’t see the harm. Life is short,” Pete says. “And we can always use extra hands in the orchard.”

—

They make two blanket nests: one for Nita and Charlie, the other for Louis and Zachary. Laurel promises her parents that they’ll spend tomorrow pruning. Today, she brings the visitors to Jenifer Street. A sandy slope leads into Lake Monona. They rotate between the water and the sand. In late afternoon, everyone naps—except for Laurel and Louis, who smokes a joint while wrapped in a towel.

“That’s not legal anymore, you know,” says Laurel, nudging him with her shoulder.

He shrugs. “Let them arrest me. I basically live in juvenile detention already.”

“I’m sorry, Louis. Is it awful?”

“Sometimes.” Louis looks at Zachary. “But not completely.”

“You do seem happy,” says Laurel.

Louis passes the joint to her. “Well, the last time I saw you? Let’s just say that it wasn’t my best season. I was an arse. I felt badly as soon as you left.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong. I assumed I’d scared you.”

“It wasn’t that you scared me. It was that you made me sad. After what happened to your daughter…I couldn’t believe you’d have to go through that with your son,” Louis says. “But I am a good friend. I told you I’d come if you needed me.”