56

If moss usually grows on the north side of the tree, which side does it grow on when you are at the exact North Pole?

Caroline spends the morning upstairs, watching TV. I do some more digging, make some phone calls. I order Blue Line pizza for lunch. She eats heartily but doesn’t say much, staring out the window. As we’re clearing the dishes from the table, she begins talking.

“When I was trapped in that shed, do you know what I thought about? I thought about Gray Stafford. He was so strong before he disappeared. He was loud and fun, so alive. And later, the saddest thing was, the boy I knew before was gone. Like he had been—”

I remember the word Caroline used when she first told me about Gray, that day in the car. “Erased?” I offer.

“Yes. Erased. And in the shed, I kept thinking, ‘I will not let this man erase me.’”

After school, Rory bounds up the stairs to join Caroline in the movie room. I can hear them talking quietly to each other. I even hear a moment of laughter. How much of this transition back to the normal world is real, how much of it is a brave act?

I walk down to the mailbox. Most of the mail is still for my dad—fishing catalogs, car magazines. The stack of envelopes makes me feel a little closer to him, as though he might show up any minute.

As I’m closing the mailbox, I see Glen Park running up the block toward me. He’s moving fast, as always, wearing a University of Arkansas shirt and some expensive Hoka One One shoes. No headphones today. As he passes, I mumble, “Hello, Glen,” more to myself than anyone. He’s going so fast that I feel a breeze as he passes me.

Glen Park, in the flesh. It makes me smile. I wish my dad were here to see it.

When he gets about thirty yards up the hill, he does what appears to be a reluctant U-turn and slowly jogs back to me, his hands folded behind his head. He stops right in front of me at the end of my driveway, backlit by the sun. Up close, I’m surprised by how tall he is.

“Hello, Lina.” I’m surprised he knows my name. He flashes a quick, pained smile. “When did you figure it out? Was it that morning by the golf course?”

“No, it was later, over on Forestview. You were doing a four-minute mile.”

“No way,” he says. “I’m too old for that.”

“I know what I saw.”

“I get carried away.”

“You have no idea how sad my dad would be to miss this. He must have watched that old footage from Kezar a hundred times.”

He puts his hands on his hips, does a couple of side bends. “He didn’t miss it. Your dad was on to me years ago.”

“What? You’re kidding!”

“I ran this route by his house one too many times. Eventually, he invited me in, told me he had a VHS tape he wanted me to see. I hadn’t watched that race in years. We became friends. Used to sit out on the back porch drinking Macallan twelve year, talking about old races.”

I smile, thinking of my dad, holding on to this secret. “Glen fucking Park,” I say. “I can’t believe he never told me.”

“I made him promise.”