The photograph on Elijah's bedside table showed three. His mother, Nora, had dark auburn hair, freckles across her nose, and a smile that made strangers smile back. Elijah remembered her in small, uneven pieces: soap bubbles floating over their kitchen sink, a song about a moon on a river, the smell of cinnamon toast. He had been four when she died after a sudden brain hemorrhage. When he asked why there were no grandparents on her side of the family, Marcus usually said, "Some people didn't know how to love your mother the way she deserved." Elijah had heard enough sadness in those words not to press. Still, on nights when his father worked late, he sometimes wondered whether the people missing from their pictures wondered about him too.
Hawthorne Hill climbed sharply, and by the time Elijah reached number 18, the clouds had darkened to slate. A long gravel driveway led to a pale stone house with green shutters. The brass knocker was shaped like a fox, and climbing roses tangled around the porch columns. Elijah climbed three steps and pressed the bell with his elbow. For a long time there was no response. Then a woman appeared behind the glass. She was elderly, with neatly pinned silver hair and a gray cardigan buttoned to her throat. Her expression was so startled that Elijah thought she might faint. The door opened before he could explain himself. "Pepper?" she whispered. The dog made a hoarse little bark and struggled toward her.
"I found him down by Birch Street," Elijah said. "He almost ran in front of a truck. I don't think he's hurt, but he's cold." The woman took Pepper with shaking hands. For an instant she seemed to forget that a boy stood on her porch soaked through at the shoulders. She buried her face against the dog's neck, and Elijah watched her try to steady her breathing. "I've been looking since breakfast," she said. "The back gate came loose. I called everyone. I thought..." She couldn't finish. "He's okay now," Elijah told her. "You should get him warm." The old woman lifted her head. "And you? You're soaked. Come inside for a moment. At least let me find you a dry towel."
Elijah hesitated. His father was strict about entering strangers' homes, even when the stranger had a trembling voice and a dog who needed help. "I should probably go," he said. "My dad will be home soon." The woman nodded immediately, without trying to persuade him. She stepped back and returned with a thick towel and a small bottle of water. That courtesy made Elijah relax. She held the towel out while Pepper circled her ankles, now behaving as though he had never been lost. "I'm Margaret Whitcomb," she said. "Would you tell me your name?" "Elijah Walker." He took the towel. Her fingers tightened against the fabric, so briefly he nearly missed it. "Walker?" she repeated. "Yes, ma'am. My dad's Marcus Walker."