CHAPTER 1
Riverwood, Minnesota, has four stoplights, two beauty salons, nine bars, one barber shop, seven restaurants, one Center for the Arts, two hardware stores, one bakery, one police station, three auto repair shops, and one missing person.
It also has a handful of salmon—salmonbeing the nickname for residents who leave Riverwood only to return years later. One of those salmon is Clay Hawkins. Clay was gone for twenty-four years and did quite well for himself, so it’s a bit odd that he moved back three months ago. But Clay has his reasons. One of them is riding shotgun in Clay’s F-150 as he navigates the narrow winding roads and one-lane bridges of Fillmore County. His son, Braedon, is twelve years old and looks a little too much like his mother for Clay’s comfort. Blue eyes and fair skin and black hair that glistens red when the sun hits it just right.
“Dad?” says Braedon as they turn onto Main Street. Braedon’sIrish brogue is fading fast after his short time living in the American Midwest. Clay heard that accents go away if exposed to a new language or new dialect before puberty. Braedon still has the voice of a boy. His face is as smooth as a five-year-old’s. His eyes are clear and innocent.
“Yeah, bud?” says Clay, who has no Irish accent. Living in Europe for fifteen years did nothing to change how he talks. His body hasn’t changed much either. He is slight in the shoulders and waist. He burned so many calories running around the soccer pitch for years that gaining weight seems impossible. His hair falls nearly to his shoulders. It was his signature look on the pitch. Now it’s threaded with gray, maybe more than threaded near his temples. The length frames the lines in his face and the ache in his eyes. An ache he desperately wants to go away.
“Does Uncle Teddy disappear a lot? Like has he ever gone missing before?”
“Your uncle Teddy is a complicated man,” says Clay. “Sweet as can be. But complicated.”
“Why is he complicated?”
It’s just after 7:00 on a Saturday morning. Downtown Riverwood is quiet. Betty-Mae’s bakery is open and so is Value Foods, and of course the Kwik-Trip is open twenty-four hours a day for all your fuel, food, lottery ticket, and vehicle-washing needs. Clay checks his mirrors to see if anyone is following him. Old habit. All is clear.
He considers asking Braedon if he’d like to stop for something to eat, but he knows his son is looking forward to Grandpa Judd’s pancakes.
“Some people,” says Clay, “are born restless souls. UncleTeddy’s one of them. But the man is sixty-three years old and has been married to Aunt Deb for over forty years. He’s everyone’s favorite member of the family. So he’s doing something right.”
“Then where’d he go and when will he come back?” says Braedon, lowering the window between himself and the fresh June air. “Will he be back tomorrow night for Sunday dinner?”
“I don’t know,” says Clay, trying not to sound concerned, which he definitely is. “Maybe Grandpa Judd has heard something. We’ll ask him in a few minutes.”
Braedon nods as if Clay’s explanation is thorough and no follow-up questions are needed. Clay seems to have put his son’s worry to rest, which is what’s most important. Braedon has enough missing people in his life.
Braedon’s only memory of his mother is in a photograph.Clay has only seen Braedon’s mother twice. He was playing for Galway United FC in the Irish Premiership and, after a friendly against Dublin in the capital, he met Braedon’s mother at a party. Her name is Eve. Clay fell for her jet-black hair, blue eyes, and wry smile. They spent the night together and, the next day, after Clay had returned to Galway with his team, he called Eve hoping that he could see her again. She did not answer his call. She did not return his voice message. Clay texted. Eve did not reply. He never heard from her again.
Until one year later when Eve stood on his front step holding a baby, her face streaked with tears. “I thought I wanted him but I don’t,” she said. “You’re the da. He’s yours if you’ll have him. If not, I’ll put him into care.”
NoHello. NoHow are you?NoSorry I didn’t respond to yourcalls and texts. No small talk whatsoever. Just “He’s yours if you’ll have him” in Eve’s musical brogue.
Eve said, “His name is Braedon. Change it if you want to. I don’t want anything to do with him.”
Clay doubted that Eve meant what she’d said about wanting nothing to do with Braedon. Her tear-stained face told a different story, as did her pallor and the tightness of her voice.
“I’ll send you pics and updates,” said Clay, looking down at the bundle in his arms. He had never held a baby before. Not once. It felt foreign and familiar at the same time. He did not, in that moment, question the responsibility of raising a child. It just felt right. And Clay hoped it was a good sign that the boy slept through his mother’s abandonment of him. As if Braedon somehow sensed he belonged with his father.
“You’ll send me nothing,” said Eve. “I want to see nothing. I changed my phone number so just let me be.” Then she turned around and walked away.
“What’s your full name?” said Clay.
But she didn’t answer. She didn’t even look back.
It was that simple. At least the handoff was. Clay had a DNA test done to confirm the baby was his and spent a fortune on lawyers to make everything legal. He hired a full-time, live-in nanny. At thirty years of age, Clay’s professional soccer career was still very much alive. Between league play and tournaments, Clay had little offseason. He traveled constantly. Before Braedon attended school, Clay brought his baby boy and the nanny on his extended trips.
To this day, the only thing Braedon knows about his mother is what he can see in a snapshot that had been taken at the partywhere Clay met her. He keeps it in a little cedar box gifted to him by his grandpa Judd.
“Are those kids restless souls like Uncle Teddy?” says Braedon, pointing to teenagers sitting on their mountain bikes outside the Kwik-Trip, sipping on barrel-sized sodas they can barely hold with one hand.
“Why do you ask that?” says Clay.
“Because they’re up so early.”
“Maybe they’re about to go mountain biking.”
“They don’t look like they’re going mountain biking. They’re not wearing helmets or pads.”
