THE DIRT IS still heaped up over the grave, undisturbed, the crate lying alongside it. The wolf-dog hasn’t been back, or hasn’t bothered to try to dig. I keep myself from staring too long at the mound in the earth. Dad is gone; he isn’t here. His body is buried for good.

No, not for good. When Raph comes back, they’ll dig up the hole. They’ll dig the body up all over again.

I wish I’d had the strength and foresight to move his body, to give him a proper grave somewhere else with a marker, someplace he wouldn’t be disturbed. But I can’t, of course. I can’t even do that for him. Maybe if I live, if I get home, I can do something.

I stare at the crate, and not for the first time I wonder what kind of man my father was, to be mixed up with someone like Raph. He made it all sound like an accident, like none of it was his fault, but can that be true? He did favors for evil men. And he brought me out here knowing it would involve me, too, even if Raph never saw me, never knew I was here.

He put me in danger, and why?

Did he think he was protecting me, taking care of me?

Or was it more selfish than that? Did he just want me back, want me with him, and never mind what was best for me?

I tug at the padlock half-heartedly. If there are any answers about my father, who he was, they’re locked away tight. Any chance of recovering them lies on the other side of the lake, with the tools from the shed.

Maybe it’s guns. Automatic weaponry with ammo galore. I imagine myself going all action-hero on Raph, bullets flying, and I smile faintly. Probably not guns. It doesn’t seem like the right size for that, and it isn’t heavy enough.

Whatever it is, though, it’s something they needed to hide where no one would come looking for it.

I’ve worked up a sweat getting this far, and now that I’m not paddling or hiking I’m getting cold. I took it so slow around the lake, coddling my sore muscles, it’s already sliding past midday. I need to hurry back if I don’t want to be tramping through the woods in the dark.

I drag the crate down to the beach on my own—Bo has declined to assist—and load it into the canoe.

It’s only then that I remember the notebook. If Raph finds that, I’m finished. I hurry up to the cabin, but I hesitate before taking the bundle from its spot. It feels wrong, like I’m betraying the me from days ago who left it there as a final testament—but I can’t risk leaving it.

I put it in the canoe with the crate and most of the other gear. The litter won’t fit—but it will float. I tie it to the back of the canoe and hope it won’t destabilize the whole thing. I can’t afford to take another dunking.

Bo won’t get in. Too wary of what happened last time, I guess, and I can’t blame him. I don’t want to overload the canoe anyway, and he knows his way home, so I launch without him. He watches me from the shore for a few minutes as I make my tentative way out on the water. Then he sets off along the shore at a trot. He knows where I’m going. I’ll see him there.

I take it slow all the way across the lake, and I stick close to the eastern shore until it bends away from my course.

It’s getting dark by the time the canoe fetches up on the shore. No sign of Bo. I pull everything up out of the water, making doubly sure that the canoe is safely on land this time before abandoning it—I’ll get it in the morning. Right now, I need to get back to shelter before I lose the way in the dark.

Bo catches up to me halfway there. “Wouldn’t want to miss dinner, huh?” I ask him.

He’s a pretty good conversationalist, once you learn his language. He’s got three basic phrases:

And what does that have to do with me? (Disinterested gaze)

Well, that sounds brilliant, and you are the most amazing person on the whole planet! (Wagging tail, adoring eyes focused on the food in my hand, rather than my face)

What did you say? I was busy paying attention to something that’s actually interesting. (Looking off into the distance)

Right now he’s in the suck-up phase that rolls around right before a meal, and as soon as we get inside I indulge him. I get our fire going and settle in next to it, chewing a pickled pearl onion, savoring the flavor.

I wish I could actually have a conversation with Bo. I love him, but it’s not like having people around. Especially here, back in a house with four walls and a roof, I feel achingly alone. I wonder if Will is having dinner. Maybe he’s on a date with the nurse he was always sneaking looks at. Maybe he’s hanging out with his cat, Brutus.

And Scott? Scott could be on a date, too, I guess. I mean, Mom is dead, I’m gone, he’s got to be moving on with his life, right? I know he wasn’t seeing anyone when the accident happened, but it’s been months since then. He thinks I’m safe. He thinks I’m off with my dad getting started on a new life. If he thinks about me at all. I was just a kid that didn’t end up being his, after all. He was just a guy that didn’t end up being my father.

Or does he think that? Maybe not. Maybe he knows I’m missing.

The idea is startling. It hasn’t really occurred to me that people must be worried about me. I mean, I was supposed to check in with my caseworker and Dad was supposed to do a bunch of stuff to get the custody sorted out completely.

Maybe they’re looking for me. Not that they’d have a snowball’s chance in hell of finding me, of course, but I do like the notion. Makes me feel not so . . . forgotten. I’m spending all this time thinking about other people, but I’ve never really expected that they’re thinking about me. Forgotten is the most alone you can get.

So maybe I’m not that alone.

Bo rests his head in my lap. I scratch him behind the ears and he huffs contentedly. Night sounds shimmer outside; the fire hisses and pops.

I try to remember if this is what it feels like to be happy.