Chapter 13: The Map That Shouldn't Exist

The morning came into Old Betty's kitchen sideways, through windows so thick with age they bent the light into something amber and approximate, like sunshine remembered rather than experienced. Mara counted nine notebooks on the table before she stopped counting. Curtis had his geological survey spread across his knees, his pencil behind his ear, his inhaler at his right hand like a talisman. Petra was standing with her back against the sink because she had declined a chair twice and Old Betty had stopped offering, which was the beginning of their understanding.

Old Betty set down her tea and went to the back bedroom without explanation.

They listened to her move through it — the specific cadence of a very old woman who knew the exact location of every obstacle in a room, unhurried, economical. A drawer opened. Something slid. The drawer closed.