“It’s just him,” Oliver says, signing quickly. “And he doesn’t like people to come see him, except for me. He likes me because I show him what’s going on over here. And in town and stuff. Because he can’t leave.”
Oliver drags his backpack around and starts digging through it. I take a moment to try and register what he’s telling me. Maybe the realtor was wrong. Maybe someone lives over there after all.
“Oliver,” I say out loud, and he looks up at me, his eyes big and genuine. I sign my next question. “Why doesn’t your friend like people to come see him?”
Oliver shrugs and goes back to digging through his backpack. A second later, he extracts a slightly wrinkled sheet of paper and hands it to me. It’s a drawing—a really, really good drawing, actually, done in black ink and colored in with pencils. It’s a cabin.
“You drew this?” I sign around the drawing.
Oliver nods. “It’s Theo’s house.”
He makes the special sign for Theo’s name again, and I store it in my head, along with the spoken version. Both of them seem to thrum in my thoughts. “Does he have a last name?” I finally ask, still not sure what to make of any of this.
“Probably, but he’s never told me.” Oliver grins again. “He uses ASL, too. Like me.”
Something pangs in my heart, and I suddenly wonder if I’ve been misreading this entire situation. Not once in my admittedly brief interaction with Oliver’s mom did I see her use ASL with him. And it occurs to me, as I look down at the drawing of the cabin, that maybe no one lives over there on the peninsula at all. That maybe Oliver just… wants someone to live over there. Someone who can talk to him the way he wants to talk.
“This is a very good drawing,” I finally say, the page fluttering a little as I sign.
Oliver beams. “Theo likes my drawings, too.”
Discomfort twists in my belly. I glance over at the treeline again. They’re dense over there, and there’s no pier or anything. No sign of habitation.
I try to hand the drawing back to Oliver, but he shakes his head. “You keep it,” he says. “Since Theo doesn’t want anyone coming to his territory, I thought I could show it to you the way I show all this stuff over here to him.”
My discomfort tightens.
“Thank you for the drawing,” I say, and I mean it. I tuck it down beneath my laptop and then turn back to Oliver, who’sstaring at me expectantly. Half a dozen questions flit through my head, and I finally settle on, “Does your Mom know about Theo?”
Immediately, Theo’s gaze flicks away. He nods yes. I wait. He doesn’t elaborate.
I try again. “Why doesn’t Theo want anyone to come visit him?”
I thought Oliver might have been avoiding the question, but this time, when I ask it, he actually does answer. “He doesn’t like living people,” Oliver says, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. “He doesn’t want them on his property. He doesn’t mind me, though, because I bring him drawings.”
“I see.” I lift my gaze past Oliver, this time to his pier and then up to his house. I’m not sure what to think.Living people. What the hell does that mean? Maybe I misunderstood him. I’m still a bit out of practice on my ASL, after all.
Then Oliver taps my arm and signs, “I don’t really like people, either. But I like you.”
I blink, surprised. This is the first time a kid has ever told me they like me. The truth is, I’ve never been around children much. I never babysat when I was younger. I don’t have any siblings, and my two cousins are my age and haven’t seen fit to reproduce yet.
“Well, thank you,” I finally say. “I like you, too, Oliver.” It seems the least I can say. And honestly, it’s true.
Oliver gives me a big, beaming grin.
And then he tears off down my pier, running back to his house, leaving me his boat and the drawing of the cabin. I look down at it, at the sketchy, rough lines. And even though the sun is warm, I get that prickling sense of unease again.
It seems to come from the peninsula.
5
CHLOE
Ican’t get Oliver’s story out of my head. I tell myself it’s not my business, that I don’t actually know him orhis family, but a thin snake of worry keeps wriggling around in my belly. He’s ten years old and nonverbal.Surelyit’s not a good idea for him to be traipsing around on the peninsula—the very same peninsula my realtor told me was dangerous? Where hikers routinely get lost?
I don’t even know what that means. It’s not even that big a patch of land. So how are hikers getting lost?
What if there really is someone living out there?
