Their belongings arrived as planned. In addition to the boxes of clothes, books, and Legos (which Lowen still messed with from time to time) was a carton of his old sketchbooks that he’d purposefully left behind in Flintlock. He had intended for the box to stay in the apartment for as long as Dad stayed in the apartment. But here it was now with a note from Dad written in marker: Lowen, thought you might miss these.

He did miss them. Before the shooting, he’d spent every free moment drawing comics. That box Dad sent held about two years of Lowen’s work. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to open it.

He couldn’t hide the box in his closet (too small), so he carried it out to the garage where Mum was storing things that either “didn’t work in this house” or that she couldn’t deal with yet. Climbing over boxes marked TEXTBOOKS and TAX RETURNS, he tucked it far in a corner. Then he placed another box labeled KNITS on top.

Lowen hoped that not looking at the box would put an end to his missing, but it turned out that he still thought about it. It was the same way with the funeral home. Even though he absolutely refused to look out his window, he couldn’t keep his mind off the place on his first night. Lying there, staring up at the dingy ceiling, he’d wondered about the body they’d seen going into the home. Where had it gone precisely? To what room? Would there be a funeral service next door? Would a black hearse come to take the body to one of the churches they’d seen in town, or to the cemetery? (His knowledge of hearses came from reading graphic novels. He’d never actually attended a funeral. Not even Abe’s. His parents had wanted him to, but he’d refused, and thankfully they didn’t make him.)

The next day Mum gathered them in the kitchen and listed the things that needed to be done. She divided the tasks into three categories:

1) Chores to ready the house for the furniture: Scrub windows, floors, walls, and bathrooms; toss remaining curtains; tear up old linoleum and carpet.

2) Jobs that must be accomplished before the final inspection: Replace front steps, porch, and siding wherever rotten; repair windows, wallboard, bathroom tiles, kitchen cupboards, and oven door; eradicate mold from the bathrooms; paint exterior.

3) Projects we’d like to do (someday!): Enlarge and remodel the kitchen; create an herb garden in the backyard; restore the hardwood floors; give all of the rooms fresh paint.

“Anything else?” Mum asked.

Anneth shrugged (thought bubble: Count me out) and Mum turned to Lowen and handed him the pad and pen. He couldn’t think of any practical needs, so he tried to think of something else to add to the wish list: a tree house? A tire swing? A hammock? Then he remembered that they had only one tree in the backyard and it was a flimsy evergreen. Not even a decent Christmas tree. Nevertheless, his fingers began to move the pen over the corner of the pad. A doodled circle turned into a face. Anneth’s face. He drew piercing eyes.

Make her eyebrows go up. Abe’s voice. Lowen quickly scratched out the doodle.

When he looked up, their next-door neighbor on Anneth’s side, the short woman who they learned was Mrs. Manzo, waved from her kitchen window.

He added a fourth category to the list: Things to buy. Below that he wrote window shades.

Lowen spent the rest of the day washing windows (being almost tall enough to reach the tops), helping Mum pull up the remaining linoleum in the kitchen, and scrubbing his bedroom floor. That night he wondered how many bodies might be stored next door. Perhaps all the tiny black flies around their house had something to do with the bodies.

The next day, Lowen pulled up stubborn, deeply rooted dandelion weeds in the front yard, helped unpack boxes, and rearranged furniture until Mum shouted, “We’re done!”

The modern furniture that had occupied their living room in Flintlock looked out of place in this tired, worn house. Mum stood back to survey their work and huffed, “Someday, it will all come together.”

That night, he fell into bed, too exhausted to do more than wonder if the body they’d seen had been a man’s or woman’s. . . .

While Clem and Anneth waited the next day for the arrival of a stackable washer and dryer (and instructions on where to install it in the mudroom), Lowen accompanied his mother to her shop. Mum suggested they take a route they hadn’t walked previously, so they went down one block to Church and followed it west for two blocks. Lowen took stock of each house they passed. Sure, the Albatross (as they’d taken to calling their house) was in pretty bad shape, but so were the other homes in town. Many had sagging roofs, chipped paint, and front porch railings that looked like smiles with missing teeth. The front steps of two of the homes had grown so rotten they’d had to be removed. In both cases, the detached steps remained off to the side on the overgrown front lawns.

But one house in particular, on the corner of Church and Cedar, stood out from all the others; not because the house was so dilapidated — just the opposite. It seemed untouched by the town’s bad luck. The stately white house (which was even grander than Field’s Funeral Home) sat slightly higher than the others around it. Its lawn and shrubs were trimmed, and several flower gardens were bursting with color. There was a little wishing well in the backyard, and a decorative windmill that was lit by early morning sun. Lowen was staring at the windmill as it slowly turned in the whispery breeze when an older man came out the front door to retrieve his newspaper. It was the selectman from the lottery: Mr. Avery. He glanced at the two of them, gave the tiniest nod of the head, and then disappeared inside.

“I bet all of the houses were that well-kempt at one time,” Mum said.

It was easy to imagine.

They turned left on Cedar, which brought them directly to Mum’s shop. She placed her load of cleaning supplies down on the sidewalk and searched for the key in her handbag.

“You could just finish the job,” Lowen quipped, nodding at the starburst of broken glass on the door. No doubt a decent shove would send the glass tinkling to the ground.

Mum frowned. “I’ll start a list of repairs for the landlord.”

“Good morning, you two,” said the hennish woman who had shown them the house on the first day, the one who owned the Busy Bee. She appeared to be returning from an errand.

“Good morning, Mrs. Corbeau,” said Mum. “How was the breakfast crowd this morning?”

“A little slower than we’re used to in July. We’re thinking of making some changes.”

“Change can be exciting,” said Mum. “I’ll be eager to hear what they are.”

There were many boarded-up storefronts on Main Street in Millville, each of which Mum could’ve rented for a song. But Mum purposely chose the space next to the Busy Bee. She had read that it’s better to be clustered with other thriving businesses — even other restaurants — than try to operate on a block where there are boarded-up storefronts. When folks went to the Busy Bee, they’d be reminded that Millville had a new lunch shop in town.

That’s what Cornish pasties were intended for: lunch. When Lowen and his siblings were little, Mum made the small tarts with steak, potato, onion, and sometimes (when she could find it) rutabaga. The small circular pie dough would be folded over the filling and then, at the place where the two halves met, pinched to make a handle. This, too, was a Cornwall tradition. Backalong, as Mum would say, Cornish miners had taken the pasties to work with them. The handle allowed them to eat most of the tart without getting the coal grime in their mouths. As the kids got older, Mum started experimenting. She made lamb and mint, pork and apple, and vegetarian curry pasties. That’s what she planned to do in Millville. She’d start with the traditional pie and then introduce others.

When Mum pushed open the broken door of her shop, glass fell to the ground.

“Top of the list,” she said.

She reached for the switch and clicked on the light, but the place still looked dark. It took a minute for Lowen’s eyes to adjust before he could make out the table in front, the counter in the middle, and the big restaurant-size oven in the back. The room obviously hadn’t been used for a very long time. There was dirt, accumulated grease, and cobwebs. It smelled sour — and a little fishy.

Mum gave a little laugh when he mentioned this. “Good nose. It used to be a seafood store.”

Lowen looked at his mother. Despite the little laugh, she sounded depressed.

“A bigger window, in the front — that’s what you need,” Lowen said optimistically. “So people will feel invited.”

She nodded. “Brilliant,” she said faintly. “We’ll add that to the list, too.”

Lowen grabbed the broom from her hands and began moving it around. He was getting used to cleaning up, and sweeping seemed the easiest way to start.

Mum grabbed a rag and went to the large sink in the back to wet it. The faucet groaned. “No water,” she said, giving a great sigh and resting her arms on the sides of the sink.

“Why did it close?”

“What’s that?” And then, “Oh, the fish shop. I don’t know. Perhaps I should have found out.” Her head dropped. “I did research, but I also let my imagination get away from me. I dreamed a place, then made what I discovered online fit my dream.”

Lowen stopped sweeping. “Is it nothing like you thought?”

Mum closed her eyes. Shook her head. “Maybe I wanted to go back in time.”

“But it can still work? Right? You can still have your restaurant. We can still have a house.”

She opened her eyes and smiled at him. “That’s right.” She grabbed a bucket and said she’d be right back. She was going next door for some water.

Back in Flintlock, Lowen had done very little deep cleaning. Oh, sure, he’d picked up his room when told (that is, until he watched Clem shove everything under the bed and he started doing the same), and once a week it would be his turn to wash the pots, but that was it. Since he’d moved to Millville, all he’d done was chores. Yet it was so much more satisfying. Each time they washed and scrubbed and swept, the place looked transformed.

After a morning’s worth of work, Mum’s shop looked much better, more welcoming. She’d opened the door and the three small windows and rays of sunshine — not to mention an earthy breeze from the Grand River — began to slip in.

When Lowen and Mum lifted and centered the table, Mum said, “It’s a bit like playing Wendy Houses, isn’t it?”

Lowen smiled. That’s what Mum had called pretend play when she was a girl.

That night Mum suggested to Lowen and Anneth (who had done two loads of laundry in the new washer and dryer) that they walk down to Roger’s for an ice cream. Lowen knew that he couldn’t avoid walking into Roger’s forever. If he did, his mother would surely be searching for a grief therapist again. So instead, he preoccupied himself with the kinds of ice cream they might have: Creamsicles, Nutty Buddy cones, ice-cream sandwiches, Chipwiches . . .

When they passed the park, Lowen saw his brother with a group of Millville kids, Mason, and Luna.

Something stirred deep inside of Lowen. It wasn’t the snake this time. It was a longing and a bit of fear mixed together. Like preparing to jump from the high dive at the pool. He wondered if Clem felt the same thing when he stood in that group and talked with Luna.

Clem gave the tiniest of nods as they passed.

When they got to Roger’s, Lowen stuck as close to Mum and Anneth as he could without it being obvious. He picked out a Blue Bunny caramel chocolate bar from the freezer and handed it to Mum. He knew Roger’s probably had candy right next to the counter, but he was going to avoid looking at it. So instead, he made a point of checking out the bulletin board in the front of the store and read about a church supper, a generator for sale, and carpentry services.

He felt relieved and even a little proud leaving the store. He’d faced one of his fears, which seemed like a pretty good start to “addressing his anxiety,” as the therapist constantly said. Maybe he wouldn’t even think about the dead body next door that night. Maybe, he wouldn’t think about anything unpleasant at all.

After watching reruns of a talent competition show, he said good night to Mum and Anneth. He texted Dad good night and had received a Sleep well, son in return. He thought of texting Clem, but that seemed lame.

Then he climbed the dark stairway, turned into his dimly lit room, and stopped dead —

A boy was sitting on the edge of his bed.