And Bub, well, you didn’t get to know him at all, did you? Will he like to read? Is he athletic? Does he have a sweet tooth? You have no idea. In a year, he won’t even remember you. You’ll be a story to him.
Of course, what you really don’t want to think about is how this could all be academic. It matters only if you’ve bought them enough time to get away in the first place. Even now, Caroline and Ted could be lying gutted in the snow, with Charlie chained fast to a tree.
A surge of agony crashes over you, but it’s not from the gunshot. You thought you were done with this. The pain, the worry, the questions. You thought the tethers of this world had finally uncoiled from you. But not yet.
The world remains insistent. Like the sound in your ears and the rapping on your shoulder. Someone is crying, you realize. When you open your eyes, you see a figure kneeling next to you. He’s very small against the drifts of snow and the edifice of the trees. He’s pulling on your arm, as if you’re an uncooperative plaything.
You tell him that he shouldn’t be out in the cold.
The boy makes a choking sound. His face is blotchy with tears, but he looks less upset than he did.
He stoops to wrap your arm around his neck. The idea of standing seems impossible to contemplate, but he is intent on it. You don’t want to disappoint him any more than you already have.
Standing is maybe the worst thing you’ve ever had to do. But the pain wakes you up. You remember more of yourself.
The fields around you are empty in the moonlight, and the ice underneath you has resettled itself. You follow Charlie back into the woods. The drifts slow him, but slow is the only speed you can go.
You remember that you have to be careful. That there are other people in the forest. Though they look for you, they are not your friends. You hear them call to one another through the noise of the trees creaking above you. They are close.
Charlie knows another way, deeper into the trees, but the way is difficult. He falls into a drift and for a moment is lost. When you pull him out, he blinks like a newborn. You make him get up onto your shoulders, even though it hurts terribly. You fall. You stand. You run. You fall. Each time it’s as if you’re freshly ripped open, but Charlie helps you up. You’re too weak to stand, and he’s too short to walk. Alone, neither of you would make it. But neither of you is alone.
The villagers who hunt you shout through the woods, and the forest in its strange way answers. Sound is different here, and in their tracking they become lost as the trees lure them deeper and deeper. Farther from you, and closer to the frozen heart of the mountains. This is a piece of fortune that feels overdue.
It’s troubling how the rows of trees only give way to more trees. But finally you see headlights ahead. You lower Charlie to the ground, and through the forest’s pillars you see your brother. He runs for you, and your wife is just behind him. Ted wraps his arm around you as he leads you to the car. Caroline takes your other side. When you look at her, something in your chest takes flight. You realize that she is crying and so are you.
They ease you into the backseat. Charlie sits up front, and Caroline squeezes next to you with Bub on her lap. She unzips your coat, puts her hands on your face, and tells you that you are going to be okay. You have no choice but to believe her. She knows you better than anyone.
The car takes off in a rush of snow and light. There is talk of hospitals and highways and state police.
Caroline gives Ted directions as she presses your wound. As the blood from your chest slows, your worries begin to mount. You remember that all your money has been flushed into a house in a village rife with lunatics from another age. You realize that everything you’ve worked toward has been lost. A home that you can be proud of. A life where you and your family can live in every comfort. Can you see it? For the first time, you can’t.
For a moment, it’s almost as if you’ve learned nothing.
The ranks of ice-glazed trees march by in their uncounted armies. Wind buffets the car from every side. But the warmth from the vents is true, and you feel your fingers begin to thaw.
You see the familiar lines of your brother’s profile as he checks on you through the rearview mirror, and you feel your wife’s unyielding grip on your chest. Bub has a tiny fist clamped to your sleeve, and Charlie’s steel-blue eyes do not even for a moment waver from your own, and you realize that you’ve been imagining the wrong kind of future for as long as you can remember.
You understand that you don’t need a dream of some distant place or time when all the pieces of a perfect life have seamlessly aligned. A man doesn’t need everything. He just needs the things he can’t live without.
Can you see it?
You can see it because they’re all around you. They’ve been here this whole time.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m enormously grateful to my editor, Mark Tavani, for his keen insights, thoughtful edits, and all-round wise counsel.
In addition to being a crucial source of advice, my agent, Elisabeth Weed, has been a champion nonpareil as well as an inexhaustible source of enthusiasm.
A special thanks to Jane Fleming Fransson, Charlotte Hamilton, Sarah Landis, and Alessandra Lusardi for wading through many, many drafts. Your (usually gentle, occasionally painful, always necessary) edits made this happen.
I’m deeply grateful for the guidance of Kendra Harpster, Jenny Meyer, Dana Murphy, Betsy Wilson, Pam Dorman, and the excellent Jennifer Hershey.
Gigantic thanks to Patricia Gilhooly, William Duffy, Kevin Duffy, Mary-Kate Duffy, Bridget Raines, Aaron Raines, Ann Marie Ricks, Theresa Maul, Robert Maul, Susan Halldorson, Hillary Lancaster-Ungerer, Michael Ungerer, and Cameron White-Ford.
I’m also very appreciative of the extraordinary team at Ballantine, especially Gina Centrello, Libby McGuire, Kim Hovey, Susan Corcoran, Mike Rotondo, Dana Blanchette, Vincent La Scala, and Kathy Lord.