One of the paramedics was a woman with copper-colored corkscrew curls. Her name was Kristin, and she was stationed in the back to monitor Hope’s vital signals. She handed Eddie a pair of large over-the-ear headphones to muffle the noise of the chopper, and she put a miniature set of headphones, headphones for a doll, over Hope’s delicate ears.

Before the world went at once loud and silent, Eddie said to Kristin, “Do people ever die in this helicopter?”

“Oh, sure,” she said. “All the time.” She smiled at him. “But your daughter is going to be fine.”

The helicopter had lifted seconds later, and so had Eddie’s spirit.

Kristin the MedFlight paramedic had been right: Hope was fine, better than fine. Occasionally over the years, Eddie would look at his slightly younger twin—when she licked her finger and turned the page of one of the books she was always reading (she was like Grace in this way), when she played the flute (how did she do it? Eddie had picked up the instrument once and had blown into the mouthpiece but had heard nothing but his own hot air)—and he would marvel at just how fine she had turned out to be, that small, pale-blue baby.

The last time Eddie had felt this way had been when he took Hope to the Summer House for dinner, just the two of them. He had been returning from the men’s room to the table when he saw Hope lean over to taste his martini. His first instinct was to call out, Hey, there, what are you doing, Hope? Come on. But he stopped himself. He recognized Hope’s natural curiosity about the adult world, beyond the edges of her own, and applauded her courage to explore it in a safe way. What he’d thought was, Good for you, Hope. Good for you.

These memories sustained Eddie all the way to exit 6 off Route 3 south, which was, unfortunately, Eddie’s exit.

Eddie Pancik had never been much for self-reflection, but as the van pulled up in front of MCI-Plymouth, and as the uniformed guards stopped them at the gate to check Eddie’s name off their list, Eddie tried to identify exactly how he was feeling.

The word that came to his mind was blessed.

NANTUCKET

There was so much chatter on Nantucket that we were surprised they couldn’t hear us on Martha’s Vineyard.

Russian prostitution ring, Low Beach Road, Edward Pancik arrested: this made the papers in Boston and beyond. We all had to suffer through people from off island asking us: How could this happen on Nantucket?

Nantucket was a place of men and women, of business and commerce, just like everywhere else. The more hard hearted and seasoned of us asked: Do you not think there were prostitutes on Nantucket back in the whaling heyday? It was the world’s oldest profession. Eddie Pancik had hardly invented it.

Certain people benefited from the scandal. One was Eloise Coffin, Eddie’s secretary. She had quit her job at Island Fog Realty—obviously—and was secretly hoping for a call from the local news station. One “investigative reporter” from an Internet blog named Jared’s Apartment called and asked to hear Eloise’s story. And so Eloise told this reporter, Jared, about how she’d been placing her cartons of organic Greek yogurt in the office fridge when she overheard Barbara Pancik on the phone, proposing the unthinkable for their five Russian housecleaners. Eloise had been completely aghast—and then she caught wind of how much money Eddie, Barbie, and the girls would be making.

Eloise did not tell this Jared fellow that there had been a week or two when she had tried to get in on the action. She had been sweet and accommodating, she had bought Eddie a potted snapdragon with her own money, she had complimented Barbie on her green-and-white-print wrap dress, even though Eloise felt that kind of dress had gone out in the 1970s. She had tried to be one of the team, hoping that either Eddie or Barbie might confide in her and cut her into the profits.

But they had chosen to be selfish—the selfish, greedy Panciks—and Eloise had had no choice but to call her son-in-law at the Nantucket Police Department and tell him what she’d heard.

The “investigative reporter,” Jared, never published the story anywhere that Eloise could find. She had her daughter-in-law, Patrice, check the Internet, but Patrice couldn’t find a blog called Jared’s Apartment. Eloise craved public acknowledgment of her do-gooding, and, falling short of that, she simply told her tale to anyone who would listen—friends, neighbors, her children and grandchildren, and her husband, Clarence.

But Clarence was six years older than Eloise, and he wore hearing aids that seemed to pick up sounds coming only from the television. Clarence had spent most of his retirement watching television—the Red Sox in summer and the Patriots and Bruins in winter, and, if not sports, then the Food Network. Eloise knew that Clarence was secretly in love with Giada De Laurentiis.

Eloise said to Clarence, “I’m surprised more reporters aren’t calling.”

“It was the FBI who caught the guy, El, not you,” Clarence said.

“Oh, I know,” Eloise said. She had been a bit disappointed when she found out there was a second informant, one with more clout than Eloise. “But you’d think, I don’t know, that they’d offer me some kind of reward.”

“Reward?” Clarence said.

“Yes, you know—like money,” Eloise said. “Or a plaque.” Even a plaque would be fine, as long as it was presented to her on a stage, in front of an audience. Eloise would stand before photographers with the chief of the Nantucket police, each of them holding one side of the plaque, smiling for the cameras. That was sure to make the evening news: EMPLOYEE UNCOVERS PROSTITUTION RING.