I’ve got to say, I admire his dedication to Greta. And the fact that he doesn’t seem to blame her for his brother’s death, the way you’d think the TV version of a guy like Bobby would. I can tell Stan’s listening through his standoffish veneer and that he got especially perked up about the electrodes. I want to know what he’s thinking right now. About Bobby and Greta and this whole trip now that we’ve met Bobby and Greta. And I want to hear what Bobby has to say about as badly as I want us to get back in the car and talk to Stan about what Bobby’s saying.
“Like I was saying when I first met you guys, back on the highway, about the island?” Bobby says, and I nod to encourage him to keep going. “Well, just the other day, she started to build this island. Out of dirt and flowers and these sticks she uses to prop up plants. Building, like, very insistently. Somehow she built this island so that in the center of it was this kind of . . . undulating field. And these blossoms that looked . . . heavy. You know? Like they were about to give birth or something. And after she built it I could just tell that she needed something. She had her suitcase already packed—no idea when she did that, but that was another thing she’d gotten up to lately that was strange: packing and unpacking her suitcase like it was some kind of relay race. Anyway, after the island, with her in the car and looking so worried and scared and excited and I don’t even know what, I had this thought: that I might be able to finally help her. The same thought Alex had that night. But he couldn’t do it. And maybe I can. So that’s why I’m here.”
“Well, Bobby,” says Stan, “that’s exactly why we’re here too.”
“Yours too?” Bobby says.
“Yup,” I say, and then all three of us gaze out at our siblings like proud parents at a dance recital.
Bobby smiles and excuses himself to go to the restroom.
I still don’t know exactly what to make of Bobby, but I do know that the scared and suspicious feeling I got when he first flagged us down is pretty much gone now. I watch Stan watching Bobby as he walks, and I can tell that he’s still skeptical. A few minutes later, Bobby comes back and then Stan gets up to use the bathroom, which is when my phone buzzes with a text from him that says, Okay, fine. His stories are crazy, but they sound pretty legit. But I can’t take someone who dresses like a fancy nerd that seriously. I allow myself a little smile and then take a second look at Bobby’s outfit: kinda tight chinos tucked into a pair of duck boots, faded button-down, a lined deck jacket. I don’t know many grad students, but Bobby’s style doesn’t seem so off-base from the language-obsessed intellectual he claims to be. yr just jealous of his sweet all-weather gear, I text back, trying to let Stan know that I’m not worried about Bobby, but that this is first and foremost our journey.
Anyway, if Bobby’s attentiveness to his appearance is Stan’s only complaint about him, then I know he agrees with me that this guy knows about Icelings. It’s clear he’s lived most his life alongside one of them, and he knows all about the delicate balancing act you’re forced to perform when you’re the one pivot point between them and everything else in the whole world.
Stan joins us back at the table, and we share a look and a wink to acknowledge our secret text conversation. Then Bobby leans in, as if to initiate some kind of huddle in which he’s about to tell us the game plan.
“I figure,” he tells us, “that if my Iceling did this, and your Icelings did this—building the islands, I mean, and then making us drive north—then probably other Icelings are doing this too. Maybe all the Icelings are doing this. Like a mass exodus sort of thing,” he says.
Bobby waits a beat, as though he’s waiting for us to say something. When we don’t, when instead Stan and I both just study him and try to figure out if he’s for real, Bobby continues. “If that’s true, then that means something, something deep in their bones or their hearts or their memories, is calling them home. All of them at once. So we’ll probably see more of them, and more of us, out here on the road pretty soon. And what worries me is that someone other than us’ll notice too.”
“You’re right,” says Stan, without a hint of mocking or smugness in his voice.
“Yeah,” Bobby says, and then we’re all quiet as we try to think about what this means.
“Oh my God,” I yelp. “Where are they?” Because all of a sudden Callie and Ted and Greta are gone, and I have no idea where they are.
Stan panics. “How the hell did this happen? They were right there! We were right there!”
“Guys,” says Bobby, “it’s fine. They’re by the cars. They probably just got impatient. See?”
Bobby points at the window behind Stan and me, and there they are. By the cars. Just like Bobby said. And I don’t know how Stan feels about it, but I do know that right now I’m feeling a little bit jealous of Bobby and his skills at being a big sibling.
“Let’s get out of here,” Stan says, and we bus our tables and head out to where our Icelings wait to get back on the road to the Great Wherever.
Out in the parking lot, Bobby says, “Hey, guys, I got this big old SUV from my parents a while ago. I converted it to biodiesel, so it smells like french fries, but it’s got a ton of room.”