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Dem Lia turned her attention to the eight people at the table. She had met all of them during the two years of ship training with the Aeneans, but knew none of these individuals well. All had been in the select group of fewer than a thousand chosen for possible awakening during transit. She checked their color-band stripes as they made introductions over coffee. Four men, five women. One of the other women was also an emerald green, which meant that Dem Lia did not know if command would fall to her or the younger woman. Of course, consensus would determine that at any rate, but since the emerald green band of the Amoiete Spectrum Helix poem and society stood for resonance with nature, ability to command, comfort with technology, and the preservation of endangered life-forms -- and all 684,300 of the Amoiete refugees could be considered endangered life-forms this far from human space -- it was assumed that in unusual awakenings the greens would be voted into overall command. In addition to the other green -- a young, redheaded woman named Res Sandre -- there was: a red-band male, Patek Georg Dem Mio; a young, white-band female named Den Soa whom Dem Lia knew from the diplomacy simulations; an ebony-band male named Jon Mikail Dem Alem; an older yellow-band woman named Oam Rai whom Dem Lia remembered as having excelled at ship system's operations; a white-haired blue-band male named Peter Delen Dem Tae whose primary training would be in psychology; an attractive female violet-band -- almost surely chosen for astronomy -- named Kem Loi; and an orange male -- their medic, whom Dem Lia had spoken to on several occasions -- Samel Ria Kem AH, known to everyone as Dr. Sam. After introductions there was a silence. The group looked out the windows at the binary system, the G8 white star almost lost in the glare of the Helix's, formidable fusion tail. Finally the red, Patek Georg, said, "All right, ship. Explain." Saigyô's calm voice came over the omnipresent speakers. "We were nearing time to begin a search for earthlike worlds when sensors and astronomy became interested in this system." "A binary system?" said Kem Loi, the violet. "Certainly not in the red giant system?" The Amoiete Spectrum Helix people had been very specific about the world they wanted their ship to find for them -- G2 sun, earthlike world at least a 9 on the old Solmev Scale, blue oceans, pleasant temperatures -- paradise, in other words. They had tens of thousands of light-years and thousands of years to hunt. They fully expected to find it. "There are no worlds left in the red-giant system," agreed Saigyô the AI affably enough. "We estimate that the system was a G2 yellow-white dwarf star ... " "Sol," muttered Peter Delen, the blue, sitting at Dem Lia's right. "Yes," said Saigyô. "Much like the Old Earth's sun. We estimate that it became unstable on the main sequence hydrogen-burning stage about three and one half million standard years ago and then expanded to its red giant phase and swallowed any planets that had been in system." "How many AU's out does the giant extend?" asked Res Sandre, the other green. "Approximately one-point-three," said the AI. "And no outer planets?" asked Kem Loi. Violets in the Helix were dedicated to complex structures, chess, the love of the more complex aspects of human relationships, and astronomy. "It would seem that there would be some gas giants or rocky worlds left if it only expanded a bit beyond what would have been Old Earth's or Hyperion's orbit." "Maybe the outer worlds were very small planetoids driven away by the constant outgassing of heavy particles," said Patek Georg, the red-band pragmatist. "Perhaps no worlds formed here," said Den Soa, the white-band diplomat. Her voice was sad. "At least in that case no life was destroyed when the sun went red giant." "Saigyô," said Dem Lia, "why are we decelerating in toward this white star? May we see the specs on it, please?"

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The great spinship translated down from Hawking space into the red-and-white double light of a close binary. While the 684,300 people of the Amoiete Spectrum Helix dreamt on in deep cryogenic sleep, the five AIs in charge of the ship conferred. They had encountered an unusual phenomenon and while four of the five had agreed it important enough to bring the huge spinship out of C-plus Hawking space, there was a lively debate -- continuing for several microseconds -- about what to do next. The spinship itself looked beautiful in the distant light of the two stars, white and red light bathing its kilometer-long skin, the starlight flashing on the three thousand environmental deep-sleep pods, the groups of thirty pods on each of the one hundred spin hubs spinning past so quickly that the swing arms were like the blur of great, overlapping fan blades, while the three thousand pods themselves appeared to be a single, flashing gem blazing with red and white light. The Aeneans had adapted the ship so that the hubs of the spinwheels along the long, central shaft of the ship were slanted -- the first thirty spin arms angled back, the second hub angling its longer thirty-pod arms forward, so that the deep-sleep pods themselves passed between each other with only microseconds of separation, coalescing into a solid blur that made the ship under full spin resemble exactly what its name implied -- Helix. An observer watching from some hundreds of kilometers away would see what looked to be a rotating human double DNA helix catching the light from the paired suns. All five of the AIs decided that it would be best to call in the spin pods. First the great hubs changed their orientation until the gleaming helix became a series of three thousand slowing carbon-carbon spin arms, each with an ovoid pod visible at its tip through the slowing blur of speed. Then the pod arms stopped and retracted against the long ship, each deep-sleep pod fitting into a concave nesting cusp in the hull like an egg being set carefully into a container. The Helix, no longer resembling its name now so much as a long, slender arrow with command centers at the bulbous, triangular head, and the Hawking drive and larger fusion engines bulking at the stern, morphed eight layers of covering over the nested spin arms and pods. All of the AIs voted to decelerate toward the G8 white star under a conservative four hundred gravities and to extend the containment field to class twenty. There was no visible threat in either system of the binary, but the red giant in the more distant system was -- as it should be -- expelling vast amounts of dust and stellar debris. The AI who took the greatest pride in its navigational skills and caution warned that the entry trajectory toward the G8 star should steer very clear of the L1 Roche lobe point because of the massive heliosphere shock waves there, and all five AIs began charting a deceleration course into the G8 system that would avoid the worst of the heliosphere turmoil. The radiation shock waves there could be dealt with easily using even a class-three containment field, but with 684,300 human souls aboard and under their care, none of the AIs would take the slightest chance. Their next decision was unanimous and inevitable. Given the reason for the deviation and deceleration into the G8 system, they would have to awaken humans. Saigyô, AI in charge of personnel lists, duty rosters, psychology profiles, and who had made it its business to meet and know each of the 684,300 men, women, and children, took several seconds to review the list before deciding on the nine people to awaken. Dem Lia awoke with none of the dull hangover feel of the old-fashioned cryogenic fugue units. She felt rested and fit as she sat up in her deep-sleep creche, the unit arm offering her the traditional glass of orange juice. "Emergency?" she said, her voice no more thick or dull than it would have been after a good night's sleep. "Nothing threatening the ship or the mission," said Saigyô, the AI. "An anomaly of interest. An old radio transmission from a system which may be a possible source of resupply. There are no problems whatsoever with ship function or life support. Everyone is well. The ship is in no danger." "How far are we from the last system we checked?" said Dem Lia, finishing her orange juice and donning her shipsuit with its emerald green stripe on the left arm and turban. Her people had traditionally worn desert robes, each robe the color of the Amoiete Spectrum that the different families had chosen to honor, but robes were impractical for spinship travel where zero g was a frequent environment. "Six thousand three hundred light-years," said Saigyô. Dem Lia stopped herself from blinking. "How many years since last awakening?" she said softly. "How many years' total voyage ship time? How many years' total voyage time-debt?" "Nine ship years and one hundred two time-debt years since last awakening," said Saigyô. "Total voyage ship time, thirty-six years. Total voyage time-debt relative to human space, four hundred and one years, three months, one week, five days." Dem Lia rubbed her neck. "How many of us are you awakening?" "Nine." Dem Lia nodded, quit wasting time chatting with the AI, glanced around only once at the two-hundred-some sealed sarcophagi where her family and friends continued sleeping, and took the main shipline people mover to the command deck, where the other eight would be gathering. The Aeneans had followed the Amoiete Spectrum Helix people's request to construct the command deck like the bridge of an ancient torchship or some Old Earth, pre-Hegira seagoing vessel. The deck was oriented one direction to down and Dem Lia was pleased to notice on the ride to the command deck that the ship's containment field held at a steady one gee. The bridge itself was about twenty-five meters across and held command-nexus stations for the various specialists, as well as a central table -- round, of course -- where the awakened were gathering, sipping coffee and making the usual soft jokes about cryogenic deep-sleep dreams. All around the great hemisphere of the command deck, broad windows opened onto space: Dem Lia stood a minute looking at the strange arrangement of the stars, the view back along the seemingly infinite length of the Helix itself where heavy filters dimmed the brilliance of the fusion-flame tail that now reached back eight kilometers toward their destination -- and the binary system itself, one small white star and one red giant, both clearly visible. The windows were not actual windows, of course; their holo pickups could be changed and zoomed or opaqued in an instant, but for now the illusion was perfect.

Now come on out,” Miles said into the microphone. “I just want to talk.” Finally, after another minute, two boys—the second a few years younger than the first—peeked out from either side of the opening where the front door used to be. Moving with exaggerated slowness, they set their guns off to the side and, hands thrust high in the air, stepped out. Miles suppressed a grin. Shaky and pale, they looked as if they believed they were going to be a source of target practice any second. Once they’d descended the broken steps, he stood from behind the car and holstered his gun. When they saw him, they stutter-stepped for a moment, then slowly continued forward. Both were dressed in faded blue jeans and torn-up sneakers, their faces and arms dirty. Country kids. As they inched forward, they kept their arms thrust above their heads, elbows locked. They’d obviously seen too many movies. When they got close, Miles could see that both of them were practically crying. Miles leaned against his car and crossed his arms. “You boys doin’ some hunting?” The younger one—ten, Miles guessed—looked to the older one, who met his gaze. They were clearly brothers. “Yes, sir,” they said in unison. “What’s in the house there?” Again they looked at each other. “Sparrows,” they finally said, and Miles nodded. “You can put your hands down.” Again they exchanged glances. Then they lowered their arms. “You sure you weren’t going after any owls?” “No, sir,” the older boy said quickly. “Just sparrows. There’s a whole bunch of ’em in there.” Miles nodded again. “Sparrows, huh?” “Yes, sir.” He pointed in the direction of the rifles. “Those twenty-twos?” “Yes, sir.” “That’s a little much for sparrows, isn’t it?” Their looks were guilty this time. Miles eyed them sternly. “Now look . . . if you were owl hunting, I’m not gonna be too happy. I like owls. They eat the rats and the mice and even snakes, and I’d rather have an owl around than any of those creatures, especially in my yard. But I’m pretty sure from all that shooting you were doing that you didn’t get him yet, now, did you?”

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There, they talked for a long time, or rather Sarah talked. Maureen mainly listened, unable to mask the concern she felt. Her eyes widened and occasionally filled with tears; she squeezed Sarah’s hand a dozen times. “Oh . . . that’s justterrible, ” she said for what seemed like the hundredth time. “What aterrible day.” “I thought so.” “Well . . . would it help if I told you to try to look on the bright side?” “There is no bright side, Mom.” “Sure there is.” Sarah raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Like what?” “Well, you can be certain that they won’t live here after they get married. Your father would have them tarred and feathered.” Despite her mood, Sarah laughed. “Thanks a lot. If I ever see him again, I’ll be sure to let him know.” Maureen paused. “You’re not planning on that, are you? Seeing him, I mean.” Sarah shook her head. “No, not unless I can’t help it.” “Good. After what he did to you, you shouldn’t.” Sarah simply nodded before leaning back against the bench. “So, have you heard from Brian lately?” she asked, changing the subject. “He’s never in when I call.” Maureen followed Sarah’s lead without complaint. “I talked to him a couple of days ago, but you know how it is. Sometimes, the last thing you want to do is talk to your parents. He doesn’t stay on the phone long.” “Is he making friends?” “I’m sure he is.” Sarah stared out over the water, thinking about her brother for a moment. Then: “How’s Daddy?” “The same. He had a checkup earlier this week and he seems to be doing fine. And he’s not as tired as he used to be.” “Is he still exercising?” “Not as much as he should, but he keeps promising me that he’s going to get serious about it.” “Tell him that I said he has to.” “I will. But he’s stubborn, you know. It would be better if you told him. If I tell him, he thinks I’m nagging.” “Are you?” “Of course not,” she said quickly. “I just worry about him.” Out in the marina, a large sailboat was heading slowly toward the Neuse River, and they both sat in silence, watching. In a minute, the bridge would swivel open to allow it passage and traffic on either side would begin to back up. Sarah had learned that if she was ever running late for an appointment, she could claim that she “got caught on the bridge.” Everyone in town from doctors to judges would accept the excuse without question, simply because they had used it themselves. “It’s good to hear you laugh again,” Maureen murmured after a moment. Sarah glanced sideways at her. “Don’t look so surprised. There was a while there when you didn’t. A long while.” Maureen touched Sarah’s knee gently. “Don’t let Michael hurt you anymore, okay? You’ve moved on—remember that.” Sarah nodded almost imperceptibly, and Maureen pressed on with the monologue that Sarah had practically memorized by now. “And you’ll keep moving on, too. One day you’ll find someone who’ll love you as you are—” “Mom . . .” Sarah interrupted, stretching out the word and shaking her head. Their conversations these days seemed always to come back to this. For once, her mother caught herself. She reached for Sarah’s hand again, and even though Sarah pulled it away at first, she persisted until Sarah relented. “I can’t help it if I want you to be happy,” she said. “Can you understand that?” Sarah forced a smile, hoping it would satisfy her mother. “Yeah, Mom, I understand.” On Monday, Jonah began the process of settling into the routine that would come to dominate much of his life over the next few months. When the bell rang, officially ending the school day, Jonah walked out with his friends but left his backpack in the classroom. Sarah, like all the other teachers, went outside to make sure kids got in the proper cars and onto the right buses. Once everyone was on the buses and the cars were pulling out, Sarah wandered over to where Jonah was standing. He stared wistfully at his departing friends. “I bet you wish you didn’t have to stay, huh?” Jonah nodded. “It won’t be so bad. I brought some cookies from home to make it a little easier.” He thought about that. “What kind of cookies?” he asked skeptically. “Oreos. When I was going to school, my mom always used to let me have a couple when I got home. She said it was my reward for doing such a good job.” “Mrs. Knowlson likes to give me apple slices.” “Would you rather have those tomorrow?” “No way,” he said seriously. “Oreos are way better.” She motioned in the direction of the school. “C’mon. You ready to get started?” “I guess so,” he mumbled. Sarah reached out, offering her hand. Jonah looked up at her. “Wait—do you have any milk?” “I can get some from the cafeteria, if you want.” With that, Jonah took her hand and smiled up at her for a moment before they headed back inside. • • • While Sarah and Jonah were holding hands, heading toward the classroom, Miles Ryan was ducking behind his car and reaching for his gun, even before the echo from the last shot had died. And he intended to stay there until he figured out what was going on. There was nothing like gunfire to get the old ticker pumping—the instinct for self-preservation always surprised Miles with both its intensity and its rapidity. The adrenaline seemed to enter his system as if he were hooked to a giant, invisible IV. He could feel his heart hammering, and his palms were slick with sweat. If he needed to, he could put out a call saying he was in trouble, and in less than a few minutes the place would be surrounded by every law enforcement officer in the county. But for the time being, he held off. For one thing, he didn’t think the gunfire was directed at him. That he’d heard it wasn’t in question, but it had sounded muffled, as if it had originated from somewhere deep in the house.

By the dim light on my desk, the newspaper clippings look older than they are. Though yellowed and wrinkled, they seem strangely heavy, as if burdened with the weight of my life back then. There are some simple truths in life, and this is one of them: Whenever someone dies young and tragically, there’s always interest in the story, especially in a small town, where everyone seems to know each other. When Missy Ryan died, it was front-page news, and gasps were heard in kitchens throughout New Bern when newspapers were opened the following morning. There was a major article and three photographs: one of the accident scene and two others that showed Missy as the beautiful woman she’d been. There were two more lengthy articles in the days that followed as more information was released, and in the beginning, everyone was confident that the case would have a resolution. A month or so after the event, another article appeared on the front page, stating that a reward had been offered by the town council for any information on the case; and with that, confidence began to fade. And as is typical of any news event, so did the interest. People around town stopped discussing it as frequently, Missy’s name came up less and less often. In time, another article appeared, this one on the third page, repeating what had been stated in the first few articles and again asking anyone in the community with information to come forward. After that, there wasn’t anything at all. The articles had always followed the same pattern, outlining what was known for sure and laying out the facts in a simple and straightforward way: On a warm summer evening in 1986, Missy Ryan—high school sweetheart of a local sheriff and mother of one son—went out for a jog, just as it was getting dark. Two people had seen her running along Madame Moore’s Lane a few minutes after she started; each of them had been interviewed later by the highway patrol. The rest of the articles concerned the events of that night. What none of them mentioned, however, was how Miles had spent the last few hours before he finally learned what happened. Those hours, I’m sure, were the ones that Miles would always remember, since they were the last hours of normalcy he would know. Miles blew off the driveway and the walk, just as Missy had asked, then went inside. He picked up around the kitchen, spent some time with Jonah, and finally put him to bed. Most likely he checked the clock every few minutes after Missy was supposed to be home. At first, he might have suspected that Missy had stopped to visit with someone she’d seen on her job, something she sometimes did, and he probably chided himself for imagining the worst. The minutes turned into an hour, then became two, and Missy still hadn’t returned. By then, Miles was worried enough to place a call to Charlie. He asked him to check out the usual route Missy jogged, since Jonah was already asleep and he didn’t want to leave him alone unless he had to. Charlie said he’d be glad to do it. An hour later—during which Miles seemed to be getting the runaround from everyone he called for updates—Charlie was at the door. He’d brought his wife, Brenda, so she could watch Jonah, and she was standing behind him, her eyes red. “You’d better come,” Charlie said softly. “There’s been an accident.” From the expression on his face, I’m sure that Miles knew exactly what Charlie was trying to tell him. The rest of the night was a terrible blur. What neither Miles nor Charlie knew then, and what the investigation would later reveal, was that there were no witnesses to the hit-and-run that had taken Missy’s life. Nor would anyone come forward with a confession. Over the next month, the highway patrol interviewed everyone in the area; they searched for any evidence that might provide a lead, poking through bushes, evaluating the evidence at the scene, visiting local bars and restaurants, asking if any customers had seemed intoxicated and had left around that time. In the end, the case file was thick and heavy, chronicling everything they had learned—which in the end was essentially nothing more than what Miles knew the moment he’d pushed open the door and seen Charlie standing on the porch. Miles Ryan had become a widower at the age of thirty.

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Miles looked away. Across the yard, he could see Jonah going down the slide in the playground, Mark right behind him. He brought his hands together. “Jonah’s mom died right before he started kindergarten. I knew that Jonah used to put his head down on his desk and cry sometimes, and we were all concerned about that. But his teacher didn’t say anything about his work. His report cards said he was doing fine. It was the same thing last year, too.” “Did you check the work he’d bring home from school?” “He never had any. Except for projects he’d made.” Now, of course, it sounded ridiculous, even to him. Why, then, hadn’t he noticed it before?A little too busy with your own life, huh? a voice inside him answered. Miles sighed, angry with himself, angry with the school. Sarah seemed to read his mind. “I know you’re wondering how this could have happened, and you’ve got every right to be upset. Jonah’s teachers had a responsibility to teach him, but they didn’t. I’m sure it wasn’t done out of malice—it probably started because no one wanted to push him too hard.” Miles considered that for a long moment. “This is justgreat ,” he muttered. “Look,” Sarah said, “I didn’t bring you here just to give you bad news. If I did only that, then I’d be neglectingmy responsibility. I wanted to talk to you about the best way to help Jonah. I don’t want to hold him back this year, and with a little extra effort, I don’t think I’ll have to. He can still catch up.” It took a while for that to sink in, and when he looked up, Sarah nodded. “Jonah is very intelligent. Once he learns something, he remembers it. He just needs a little more work than I can give him in class.” “So what does that mean?” “He needs help after school.” “Like a tutor?” Sarah smoothed her long skirt. “Getting a tutor is one idea, but it can get expensive, especially when you consider that Jonah needs help in learning the basics. We’re not talking algebra here—right now we’re doing single-digit addition, like three plus two. And as far as reading goes, he just needs to spend some time practicing. Same thing with writing, he just needs to do it. Unless you’ve got money to burn, it would probably be better if you do it.” “Me?” “It’s not all that hard. You read with him, have him read to you, help him with his assignments, things like that. I don’t think you’ll have any problem with anything that I’ve assigned.” “You didn’t see my report cards as a kid.” Sarah smiled before going on. “A set schedule, too, would probably help. I’ve learned that kids remember things best when there’s a routine involved. And besides, a routine usually ensures that you’re consistent, and that’s what Jonah needs most of all.” Miles adjusted himself in his seat. “That’s not as easy as it sounds. My schedule varies. Sometimes I’m home at four, other times I don’t get home until Jonah’s already in bed.” “Who watches him after school?” “Mrs. Knowlson—our neighbor. She’s great, but I don’t know if she’d be up to doing schoolwork with him every day. She’s in her eighties.” “What about someone else? A grandparent or someone like that?” Miles shook his head. “Missy’s parents moved to Florida after she died, so they’re not around. My mother died when I was finishing up high school, and as soon as I went off to college, my father took off. Half the time, I don’t even know where he is. Jonah and I have been pretty much on our own for the last couple of years. Don’t get me wrong—he’s a great kid, and sometimes I feel lucky to have him all to myself. But at other times, I can’t help but think it would have been easier if Missy’s parents had stayed in town, or if my father were a little more available.” “For something like this, you mean?” “Exactly,” he answered, and Sarah laughed again. He liked the sound of it. There was an innocent ring to it, the kind he associated with children who had yet to realize that the world wasn’t simply fun and games. “At least you’re taking this seriously,” Sarah said. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had this conversation with parents who either didn’t want to believe it or wanted to blame me.” “Does that happen a lot?” “More than you can imagine. Before I sent the note home, I even talked to Brenda about the best way to tell you.” “What did she say?” “She told me not to worry, that you wouldn’t overreact. That first and foremost, you’d be worried about Jonah and that you’d be open to what I was telling you. Then she told me that I shouldn’t worry one little bit, even if you did have a gun with you.” Miles looked horrified. “She didn’t.” “She did, but you have to have been there when she said it.” “I’m going to have to talk to her.” “No, don’t—it was obvious that she likes you. She told me that, too.” “Brenda likes everyone.” At that moment, Miles heard Jonah yelling for Mark to chase him. Despite the heat, the two boys raced through the playground, whipping around some poles before spinning off in another direction. “I can’t believe how much energy they have,” Sarah marveled. “They did the same thing at lunch today.”

Besides, he’d told himself, he would take care of everything when he got back, and he meant it. He hadn’t intended to be gone all day, but as with many of his fishing trips, one thing had led to the next and he’d lost track of time. Still, he had his speech worked out—Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything, even if it takes the rest of the night and I need a flashlight.It might have worked, too, had he told her his plans before he’d slipped out of bed that morning. But he hadn’t, and by the time he got home she’d done most of the work. The yard was mowed, the walk was edged, she’d planted some pansies around the mailbox. It must have taken hours, and to say she was angry was an understatement. Even furious wasn’t sufficient. It was somewhere beyond that, the difference between a lit match and a blazing forest fire, and he knew it. He’d seen the look a few times in the years they’d been married, but only a few. He swallowed, thinking, Here we go. “Hey, hon,” he said sheepishly, “sorry that I’m so late. We just lost track of time.” Just as he was getting ready to start his speech, Missy turned around and spoke over her shoulder. “I’m going for a jog. Youcan take care of this, can’t you?” She’d been getting ready to blow the grass off the walkway and drive; the blower was sitting on the lawn. Miles knew enough not to respond. After she’d gone inside to change, Miles got the cooler from the back of the car and brought it to the kitchen. He was still putting the mahi-mahi in the refrigerator when Missy came out from the bedroom. “I was just putting the fish away . . . ,” he started, and Missy clenched her jaw. “What about doing what I asked you?” “I’m going to—just let me finish here so this won’t spoil.” Missy rolled her eyes. “Just forget it. I’ll do it when I get back.” The martyr tone. Miles couldn’t stand that. “I’ll do it,” he said. “I said I would, didn’t I?” “Just like you’d finish the lawn before you went out fishing?” He should have just bitten his lip and kept quiet. Yes, he’d spent the day fishing instead of working around the house; yes, he’d let her down. But in the whole scheme of things, it wasn’tthat big a deal, was it? It was just her brother and sister-in-law, after all. It wasn’t as if the president were coming. There wasn’t any reason to be irrational about the whole thing. Yep, he should have kept quiet. Judging from the way she looked at him after he’d said it, he would have been better off. When she slammed the door on her way out, Miles heard the windows rattle. Once she’d been gone a little while, however, he knew he’d been wrong, and he regretted what he’d done. He’d been a jerk, and she was right to have called him on it. He wouldn’t, however, get the chance to say he was sorry. • • • “Still smoking, huh?” Charlie Curtis, the county sheriff, looked across the table at his friend just as Miles took his place at the table. “I don’t smoke,” Miles answered quickly. Charlie raised his hands. “I know, I know—you’ve already told me that. Hey, it’s fine with me if you want to delude yourself. But I’ll make sure to put the ashtrays out when you come by anyway.” Miles laughed. Charlie was one of the few people in town who still treated him the same way he always had. They’d been friends for years; Charlie had been the one who suggested that Miles become a deputy sheriff, and he’d taken Miles under his wing as soon as Miles had finished his training. He was older—sixty-five, next March—and his hair was streaked with gray. He’d put on twenty pounds in the past few years, almost all of it around his middle. He wasn’t the type of sheriff who intimidated people on sight, but he was perceptive and diligent and had a way of getting the answers he needed. In the last three elections, no one had even bothered to run against him.

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Her first thought was that Jonah had a learning disability, something like dyslexia. But after spending a week with him, she didn’t believe that was the case. He didn’t mix up letters or words, he understood everything she was telling him. Once she showed him something, he tended to do it correctly from that point on. His problem, she believed, stemmed from the fact that he’d simply never had to do his schoolwork before, because his teachers hadn’t required it. When she asked a couple of the other teachers about it, she learned about Jonah’s mother, and though she was sympathetic, she knew it wasn’t in anyone’s best interest—especially Jonah’s—to simply let him slide, as his previous teachers had done. At the same time, she couldn’t give Jonah all the attention he needed because of the other students in her class. In the end, she decided to meet with Jonah’s father to talk to him about what she knew, in hopes that they could find a way to work it out. She’d heard about Miles Ryan. Not much, but she knew that people for the most part both liked and respected him and that more than anything, he seemed to care about his son. That was good. Even in the little while she’d been teaching, she’d met parents who didn’t seem to care about their children, regarding them as more of a burden than a blessing, and she’d also met parents who seemed to believe their child could do no wrong. Both were impossible to deal with. Miles Ryan, people said, wasn’t that way. At the next corner, Sarah finally slowed down, then waited for a couple of cars to pass. Sarah crossed the street, waved to the man behind the counter at the pharmacy, and grabbed the mail before making her way up the steps to her apartment. After unlocking the door, she quickly scanned the mail and then set it on the table by the door. In the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of ice water and carried the glass to her bedroom. She was undressing, tossing her clothes in the hamper and looking forward to a cool shower, when she saw the blinking light on the answering machine. She hit the play button and her mother’s voice came on, telling Sarah that she was welcome to stop by later, if she had nothing else going on. As usual, her voice sounded slightly anxious. On the night table, next to the answering machine, was a picture of Sarah’s family: Maureen and Larry in the middle, Sarah and Brian on either end. The machine clicked and there was a second message, also from her mother: “Oh, I thought you’d be home by now . . . ,” it began. “I hope everything’s all right. . . .” Should she go or not? Was she in the mood? Why not? she finally decided. I’ve got nothing else to do anyway. • • • Miles Ryan made his way down Madame Moore’s Lane, a narrow, winding road that ran along both the Trent River and Brices Creek, from downtown New Bern to Pollocksville, a small hamlet twelve miles to the south. Originally named for the woman who once ran one of the most famous brothels in North Carolina, it rolled past the former country home and burial plot of Richard Dobbs Spaight, a southern hero who’d signed the Declaration of Independence. During the Civil War, Union soldiers exhumed the body from the grave and posted his skull on an iron gate as a warning to citizens not to resist the occupation. When he was a child, that story had kept Miles from wanting to go anywhere near the place. Despite its beauty and relative isolation, the road he was following wasn’t for children. Heavy, fully loaded logging trucks rumbled over it day and night, and drivers tended to underestimate the curves. As a homeowner in one of the communities just off the lane, Miles had been trying to lower the speed limit for years. No one, except for Missy, had listened to him. This road always made him think of her. Miles tapped out another cigarette, lit it, then rolled down the window. As the warm air blew in the car, simple snapshots of the life they’d lived together surfaced in his mind; but as always, those images led inexorably to their final day together. Ironically, he’d been gone most of the day, a Sunday. Miles had gone fishing with Charlie Curtis. He’d left the house early that morning, and though both he and Charlie came home with mahi-mahi that day, it wasn’t enough to appease his wife. Missy, her face smudged with dirt, put her hands on her hips and glared at him the moment he got home. She didn’t say anything at all, but then, she didn’t need to. The way she looked at him spoke volumes. Her brother and sister-in-law were coming in from Atlanta the following day, and she’d been working around the house, trying to get it ready for guests. Jonah was in bed with the flu, which didn’t make it any easier, since she’d had to take care of him as well. But that wasn’t the reason for her anger; Miles himself had been the cause. Though she’d said that she wouldn’t mind if Miles went fishing, shehad asked him to take care of the yardwork on Saturday so she wouldn’t have to worry about that as well. Work, however, had intervened, and instead of calling Charlie with his regrets, Miles had elected to go out on Sunday anyway. Charlie had teased him on and off all day—“You’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight”—and Miles knew Charlie was probably right. But yardwork was yardwork and fishing was fishing, and for the life of him, Miles knew that neither Missy’s brother nor his wife would care in the slightest whether there were a few too many weeds growing in the garden.

Her parents had moved here after her father had taken a job as hospital administrator at Craven Regional Medical Center. Once Sarah’s divorce had been finalized, they’d begun to prod her to move down as well. Knowing how her mother was, she’d put it off for a year. Not that Sarah didn’t love her mother, it was just that her mother could sometimes be . . .draining, for lack of a better word. Still, for peace of mind she’d finally taken their advice, and so far, thankfully, she hadn’t regretted it. It was exactly what she needed, but as charming as this town was, there was no way she saw herself living here forever. New Bern, she’d learned almost right away, was not a town for singles. There weren’t many places to meet people, and the ones her own age that she had met were already married, with families of their own. As in many southern towns, there was still a social order that defined town life. With most people married, it was hard for a single woman to find a place to fit in, or even to start. Especially someone who was divorced and completely new to the area. It was, however, an ideal place to raise children, and sometimes as she walked, Sarah liked to imagine that things had turned out differently for her. As a young girl, she’d always assumed she would have the kind of life she wanted: marriage, children, a home in a neighborhood where families gathered in the yards on Friday evenings after work was finished for the week. That was the kind of life she’d had as a child, and it was the kind she wanted as an adult. But it hadn’t worked out that way. Things in life seldom did, she’d come to understand. For a while, though, she had believed anything was possible, especially when she’d met Michael. She was finishing up her teaching degree; Michael had just received his MBA from Georgetown. His family, one of the most prominent in Baltimore, had made their fortune in banking and were immensely wealthy and clannish, the type of family that sat on the boards of various corporations and instituted policies at country clubs that served to exclude those they regarded as inferior. Michael, however, seemed to reject his family’s values and was regarded as the ultimate catch. Heads would turn when he entered a room, and though he knew what was happening, his most endearing quality was that he pretended other people’s images of him didn’t matter at all. Pretended,of course, was the key word. Sarah, like every one of her friends, knew who he was when he showed up at a party, and she’d been surprised when he’d come up to say hello a little later in the evening. They’d hit it off right away. The short conversation had led to a longer one over coffee the following day, then eventually to dinner. Soon they were dating steadily and she’d fallen in love. After a year, Michael asked her to marry him.

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Jonah shrugged. “Fine, I guess.” This question too, was part of the routine. Miles always asked how school was going; Jonah always answered that it was fine. But earlier that morning, while getting Jonah’s backpack ready, Miles had found a note from Jonah’s teacher, asking him if it was possible to meet today. Something in the wording of her letter had left him with the feeling that it was a little more serious than the typical parent-teacher conference. “You doing okay in class?” Jonah shrugged. “Uh-huh.” “Do you like your teacher?” Jonah nodded in between bites. “Uh-huh,” he answered again. Miles waited to see if Jonah would add anything more, but he didn’t. Miles leaned a little closer. “Then why didn’t you tell me about the note your teacher sent home?” “What note?” he asked innocently. “The note in your backpack—the one your teacher wanted me to read.” Jonah shrugged again, his shoulders popping up and down like the waffles in the toaster. “I guess I just forgot.” “How could you forget something like that?” “I don’t know.” “Do you know why she wants to see me?” “No . . .” Jonah hesitated, and Miles knew immediately that he wasn’t telling the truth. “Son, are you in trouble at school?” At this, Jonah blinked and looked up. His father didn’t call him “son” unless he’d done something wrong. “No, Dad. I don’t ever act up. I promise.” “Then what is it?” “I don’t know.” “Think about it.” Jonah squirmed in his seat, knowing he’d reached the limit of his father’s patience. “Well, I guess I might be having a little trouble with some of the work.” “I thought you said school was going okay.” “Schoolis going okay. Miss Andrews is really nice and all, and I like it there.” He paused. “It’s just that sometimes I don’t understand everything that’s going on in class.” “That’s why you go to school. So you can learn.” “I know,” he answered, “but she’s not like Mrs. Hayes was last year. The work she assigns ishard. I just can’t do some of it.” Jonah looked scared and embarrassed at exactly the same time. Miles reached out and put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell me you were having trouble?” It took a long time for Jonah to answer. “Because,” he said finally, “I didn’t want you to be mad at me.” • • • After breakfast, after making sure Jonah was ready to go, Miles helped him with his backpack and led him to the front door. Jonah hadn’t said much since breakfast. Squatting down, Miles kissed him on the cheek. “Don’t worry about this afternoon. It’s gonna be all right, okay?” “Okay,” Jonah mumbled. “And don’t forget that I’ll be picking you up, so don’t get on the bus.” “Okay,” he said again. “I love you, champ.” “I love you, too, Dad.” Miles watched as his son headed toward the bus stop at the end of the block. Missy, he knew, wouldn’t have been surprised by what had happened this morning, as he had been. Missy would have already known that Jonah was having trouble at school. Missy had taken care of things like this. Missy had taken care of everything. The night before she was to meet with Miles Ryan, Sarah Andrews was walking through the historic district in New Bern, doing her best to keep a steady pace. Though she wanted to get the most from her workout—she’d been an avid walker for the past five years—since she’d moved here, she’d found it hard to do. Every time she went out, she found something new to interest her, something that would make her stop and stare. New Bern, founded in 1710, was situated on the banks of the Neuse and Trent Rivers in eastern North Carolina. As the second oldest town in the state, it had once served as the capital and been home to the Tryon Palace, residence of the colonial governor. Destroyed by fire in 1798, the palace had been restored in 1954, complete with some of the most breathtaking and exquisite gardens in the South. Throughout the grounds, tulips and azaleas bloomed each spring, and chrysanthemums blossomed in the fall. Sarah had taken a tour when she’d first arrived. Though the gardens were between seasons, she’d nonetheless left the palace wanting to live within walking distance so she could pass its gates each day. She’d moved into a quaint apartment on Middle Street a few blocks away, in the heart of downtown. The apartment was up the stairs and three doors away from the pharmacy where in 1898 Caleb Bradham had first marketed Brad’s drink, which the world came to know as Pepsi-Cola. Around the corner was the Episcopal church, a stately brick structure shaded with towering magnolias, whose doors first opened in 1718. When she left her apartment to take her walk, Sarah passed both sites as she made her way to Front Street, where many of the old mansions had stood gracefully for the past two hundred years. What she really admired, however, was the fact that most of the homes had been painstakingly restored over the past fifty years, one house at a time. Unlike Williamsburg, Virginia, which was restored largely through a grant from the Rockefeller Foundation, New Bern had appealed to its citizens and they had responded. The sense of community had lured her parents here four years earlier; she’d known nothing about New Bern until she’d moved to town last June. As she walked, she reflected on how different New Bern was from Baltimore, Maryland, where she’d been born and raised, where she’d lived until just a few months earlier. Though Baltimore had its own rich history, it was a city first and foremost. New Bern, on the other hand, was a small southern town, relatively isolated and largely uninterested in keeping up with the ever quickening pace of life elsewhere. Here, people would wave as she passed them on the street, and any question she asked usually solicited a long, slow-paced answer, generally peppered with references to people or events that she’d never heard of before, as if everything and everyone were somehow connected. Usually it was nice, other times it drove her batty.

He struck me, for instance, at first, as rather abrupt, but that may well come from his being an outspoken man, and that is no doubt how it is. For instance, at his second visit, after he had received Dounia's consent, in the course of conversation, he declared that before making Dounia's acquaintance, he had made up his mind to marry a girl of good reputation, without dowry and, above all, one who had experienced poverty, because, as he explained, a man ought not to be indebted to his wife, but that it is better for a wife to look upon her husband as her benefactor. I must add that he expressed it more nicely and politely than I have done, for I have forgotten his actual phrases and only remember the meaning. And, besides, it was obviously not said of design, but slipped out in the heat of conversation, so that he tried afterwards to correct himself and smooth it over, but all the same it did strike me as somewhat rude, and I said so afterwards to Dounia. But Dounia was vexed, and answered that 'words are not deeds,' and that, of course, is perfectly true. Dounia did not sleep all night before she made up her mind, and, thinking that I was asleep, she got out of bed and was walking up and down the room all night; at last she knelt down before the ikon and prayed long and fervently and in the morning she told me that she had decided. "I have mentioned already that Pyotr Petrovitch is just setting off for Petersburg, where he has a great deal of business, and he wants to open a legal bureau. He has been occupied for many years in conducting civil and commercial litigation, and only the other day he won an important case. He has to be in Petersburg because he has an important case before the Senate. So, Rodya dear, he may be of the greatest use to you, in every way indeed, and Dounia and I have agreed that from this very day you could definitely enter upon your career and might consider that your future is marked out and assured for you. Oh, if only this comes to pass! This would be such a benefit that we could only look upon it as a providential blessing. Dounia is dreaming of nothing else. We have even ventured already to drop a few words on the subject to Pyotr Petrovitch. He was cautious in his answer, and said that, of course, as he could not get on without a secretary, it would be better to be paying a salary to a relation than to a stranger, if only the former were fitted for the duties (as though there could be doubt of your being fitted!) but then he expressed doubts whether your studies at the university would leave you time for work at his office. The matter dropped for the time, but Dounia is thinking of nothing else now. She has been in a sort of fever for the last few days, and has already made a regular plan for your becoming in the end an associate and even a partner in Pyotr Petrovitch's business, which might well be, seeing that you are a student of law. I am in complete agreement with her, Rodya, and share all her plans and hopes, and think there is every probability of realising them. And in spite of Pyotr Petrovitch's evasiveness, very natural at present (since he does not know you), Dounia is firmly persuaded that she will gain everything by her good influence over her future husband; this she is reckoning upon. Of course we are careful not to talk of any of these more remote plans to Pyotr Petrovitch, especially of your becoming his partner. He is a practical man and might take this very coldly, it might all seem to him simply a day-dream. Nor has either Dounia or I breathed a word to him of the great hopes we have of his helping us to pay for your university studies; we have not spoken of it in the first place, because it will come to pass of itself, later on, and he will no doubt without wasting words offer to do it of himself, (as though he could refuse Dounia that) the more readily since you may by your own efforts become his right hand in the office, and receive this assistance not as a charity, but as a salary earned by your own work.

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What was more, she showed and read to everyone the letter in Dounia's own handwriting to Mr. Svidrigailov and even allowed them to take copies of it--which I must say I think was superfluous. In this way she was busy for several days in driving about the whole town, because some people had taken offence through precedence having been given to others. And therefore they had to take turns, so that in every house she was expected before she arrived, and everyone knew that on such and such a day Marfa Petrovna would be reading the letter in such and such a place and people assembled for every reading of it, even many who had heard it several times already both in their own houses and in other people's. In my opinion a great deal, a very great deal of all this was unnecessary; but that's Marfa Petrovna's character. Anyway she succeeded in completely re-establishing Dounia's reputation and the whole ignominy of this affair rested as an indelible disgrace upon her husband, as the only person to blame, so that I really began to feel sorry for him; it was really treating the crazy fellow too harshly. Dounia was at once asked to give lessons in several families, but she refused. All of a sudden everyone began to treat her with marked respect and all this did much to bring about the event by which, one may say, our whole fortunes are now transformed. You must know, dear Rodya, that Dounia has a suitor and that she has already consented to marry him. I hasten to tell you all about the matter, and though it has been arranged without asking your consent, I think you will not be aggrieved with me or with your sister on that account, for you will see that we could not wait and put off our decision till we heard from you. And you could not have judged all the facts without being on the spot. This was how it happened. He is already of the rank of a counsellor, Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin, and is distantly related to Marfa Petrovna, who has been very active in bringing the match about. It began with his expressing through her his desire to make our acquaintance. He was properly received, drank coffee with us and the very next day he sent us a letter in which he very courteously made an offer and begged for a speedy and decided answer. He is a very busy man and is in a great hurry to get to Petersburg, so that every moment is precious to him. At first, of course, we were greatly surprised, as it had all happened so quickly and unexpectedly. We thought and talked it over the whole day. He is a well-to-do man, to be depended upon, he has two posts in the government and has already made his fortune. It is true that he is forty-five years old, but he is of a fairly prepossessing appearance and might still be thought attractive by women, and he is altogether a very respectable and presentable man, only he seems a little morose and somewhat conceited. But possibly that may only be the impression he makes at first sight. And beware, dear Rodya, when he comes to Petersburg, as he shortly will do, beware of judging him too hastily and severely, as your way is, if there is anything you do not like in him at first sight. I give you this warning, although I feel sure that he will make a favourable impression upon you. Moreover, in order to understand any man one must be deliberate and careful to avoid forming prejudices and mistaken ideas, which are very difficult to correct and get over afterwards. And Pyotr Petrovitch, judging by many indications, is a thoroughly estimable man. At his first visit, indeed, he told us that he was a practical man, but still he shares, as he expressed it, many of the convictions 'of our most rising generation' and he is an opponent of all prejudices. He said a good deal more, for he seems a little conceited and likes to be listened to, but this is scarcely a vice. I, of course, understood very little of it, but Dounia explained to me that, though he is not a man of great education, he is clever and seems to be good-natured. You know your sister's character, Rodya. She is a resolute, sensible, patient and generous girl, but she has a passionate heart, as I know very well. Of course, there is no great love either on his side, or on hers, but Dounia is a clever girl and has the heart of an angel, and will make it her duty to make her husband happy who on his side will make her happiness his care. Of that we have no good reason to doubt, though it must be admitted the matter has been arranged in great haste. Besides he is a man of great prudence and he will see, to be sure, of himself, that his own happiness will be the more secure, the happier Dounia is with him. And as for some defects of character, for some habits and even certain differences of opinion --which indeed are inevitable even in the happiest marriages-- Dounia has said that, as regards all that, she relies on herself, that there is nothing to be uneasy about, and that she is ready to put up with a great deal, if only their future relationship can be an honourable and straightforward one.