“Okay, good.” She knew he wanted direction; he wanted to help. Eight years old and already a troubleshooter. Did she need to say it? He was just like his father.

Delilah said, “Are you capable of getting your brother out of his clothes?”

Drew nodded like a good soldier. “You bet.”

Delilah bent down to stroke Finn’s back. This was her fault. She could not take kids who were used to just-picked corn and organic free-range chickens and expect their systems to handle near-poisonous quantities of sugar and tallow.

If Jeffrey were watching this…

She tried to push this thought from her head.

… he would say she was getting what she deserved.

The minivan was covered with puke; the hotel room had been desecrated and they’d only been there ninety seconds. She, Delilah, was streaked with vomit; she had vomit in her hair. She heard a familiar tussling in the room, and she knew that although Barney was parched and dehydrated, or possibly brewing another bubbling batch of barf, he was also actively resisting his older brother’s stripping him down.

Drew insisted. “Mom said!”

Barney said, “Get off of me!”

Delilah left Finn moaning and groaning and separated her boys. She whipped off Barney’s clothes with no mercy while Drew complained.

“You said I could help!”

She threw the fouled clothes into a pile in the corner. What she needed was the overnight bag from the car. Could she in good conscience send Drew to go get it? He was strapping and athletic, he could deal with the car keys and the hotel key card, he could get the bag and trek all the way back here. But could he do it in the middle of the night, when—Delilah was sure—there were abductors and pedophiles lurking in the fields beyond the hotel parking lot?

No.

“I have to go get the overnight bag,” Delilah said. She wanted her toothbrush and the kids needed a change of clothes.

Delilah waited until Finn was strong enough to stand up, then she walked him to the bed where his sister was fast asleep, stripped him to his boxers, and got him under the covers. She adjusted the air conditioner. The room was starting to smell. Delilah threw a few of the thin hotel towels over the obvious places where Finn had vomited.

“I’ll be right back,” Delilah said to Drew. Barney was huddled under the covers.

“Can I watch TV?” Drew asked.

“No,” Delilah said. It was one in the morning. What would be on the hotel TV but pornography?

“Please?”

“No, Drew. Everyone else is asleep.”

He gave her a face. “This place sucks. I hate it here.”

Well, that made two of them, but Delilah couldn’t articulate this because the kids would take their cues from her. She had to be upbeat, no matter what. “I only pulled over because your brother was sick. This isn’t anyplace we’re staying.”

“Where are we staying?” Drew asked. “Where are we going?”

Michigan, she thought. The idea had taken root in her. The kids splashing in the lake, the kids picking blueberries.

“Someplace else,” she said.

She hiked down to the parking lot for the bag. She was exhausted. Really fucking tired. She just wanted to sleep.

When she got back to the room, she heard a noise she did not like. The door to the bathroom was shut. She pushed it open.

Drew was on his knees, puking into the bathtub.

PHOEBE

Everyone had left her except for the Chief and the hundred other people who were dancing. Phoebe had no shortage of dance partners. She danced with Swede, she danced with Hank Drenmiller, she danced with the executive director of Island Conservation. They all told her how wonderful she was, how generous and kindhearted. Phoebe felt like the belle of the ball, the way she used to feel on special nights before Reed died, like she was pretty and charming and so, so lucky to have been born into her life.

But something was eating at her, an impostor feeling, a feeling that she did not deserve any of this. She had been drinking champagne all night to combat this feeling, but as was always the case with alcohol, her underlying feelings became stronger rather than weaker. Pretense peeled away, exposing…

The band finished “These Boots Were Made for Walking,” and Phoebe and the executive director separated and politely clapped. Phoebe scanned the crowd. Everyone was having a lot of fun; she could feel good about that. She saw Eddie on the fringes of the room, holding a savannah sidecar. He wasn’t dancing and he wasn’t talking to anyone, but he looked happy.

Phoebe was rafting down a champagne river. The band launched into “Love Potion Number Nine.” Phoebe grabbed the Chief’s hand. “Come on, Eddie. Let’s dance.”

“I don’t dance,” the Chief said. “You know that. Not with my wife, not with the Queen of England.”

Phoebe pulled him onto the dance floor. “But with me, tonight, yes.”

“No,” he said, but he was trying not to smile.

“It’s my party,” Phoebe said, “and you’ll dance if I want to.”

And guess what? The Chief could dance. He was as strong and solid and surefooted as Phoebe’s father. He led, she followed. She was seventeen again, at the Whitefish Bay Pool Club at her homecoming dance. She had been runner-up as queen to Shelby Duncan, Reed’s girlfriend. Reed and Shelby had looked silly but sweet in their foil crowns.

Phoebe became confused. The Chief twirled her, then gathered her up in his arms. He was her father. He was a safe place. She looked him square in the eye. He stopped, held her out at arm’s length.