Amy nods. “Kayla says you’re doing very well in school.”
“I mean, I try to. I’ve got a lot to catch up on.”
“There’s no shame in that. Sid, have you met the Wongs? They’re hosting another sanctuary case.”
Amy deftly moves through the crowd, forcing everyone to shake hands and smile at each other. It isn’t a large group. People who immigrated within the last year have been invited, along with their sanctuary hosts, if they have them. There are two families who have recently immigrated from the San Juan islands and a woman who moved here from Penelakut. Only one other person is a sanctuary case—a skittish, white-haired man who eyes both April and I with suspicion. A small part of me wants to grab his hands and whisper, “Same, old timer,” but for obvious reasons, neither of us do. The Wongs seem to be the people hosting him. They shake Sid’s hand as Amy tellsthem all about how our chance encounter at the restaurant inspired this whole afternoon.
I’m a little surprised there are so few of us. Amy’s talk of making it a big event convinced me this would be a huge production, but I guess this is a more realistic view of what immigration would look like thirty-two years after the end of the world. Sid has mentioned that ten or twenty years ago, it was a lot more people. Whole groups showed up begging for refuge at once. But we’re far enough out now that people are either settled within their own nations or dead.
I don’t mind, of course. A smaller group suits me. Best of all, there’s one face I don’t see.
“Where’s Mr. Sullivan?” April asks, invoking the devil’s name.
“He’ll be here soon. Bradley is driving him up,” says Amy.
“Bradley?” Sid says. “Bradley who?”
“Patterson.”
I can’t help noticing that Amy is no longer meeting Sid’s eye.
“Bradley Patterson? Is he hosting a sanctuary case?”
“No, but I met him for drinks, and he said he would drive Tom. You know how his leg gets.”
“And then is heleaving?”
“Sid… he wants to form a coalition.”
“No. Amy, you already know how I feel about this.”
“But why not?” She grabs his arm, pulling him away from the larger group. I drift in their direction, curious. Not that I understand what they’re talking about. “We’ve already started one. We’ve got you and me and Uncle Tom. If you can stomach that—”
“Patterson is different. You know he is.”
“How? Why? He doesn’t have to be.”
I would very much like to know that, too.
I get my answer when their argument is cut short by a pair of horses trotting up the hill, towing a wagon. Nay, acarriage. This is easily the most elegantly appointed vehicle I have seen since coming to Salt Spring, with tassels dangling from the corners of the enclosed box. I make out Tom Sullivan through a window, sour-faced as usual, but the real sight to behold is the man driving the buggy. He’s wearing a black fedora, patent leather shoes and a tailored suit that somehow puts Amy’s dress to shame.
“Bradley! You made it.” Amy rushes forward. “And thank you for bringing Uncle Tom.”
“It wasn’t any trouble,” says the man, getting down from the carriage seat. “I like driving. Does me good to get outside.”
“No…”
I turn at the sound of April’s voice. She’s staring at the carriage too, but her face is so pale, it reminds me of when she was still sick.
“What is it?” I ask her.
“It’s… it’s nothing.” She blinks furiously. “I just thought… it’s nothing.”
Normally, I would press for further details, but the arrival of our last two guests means Amy is eager to get the tour started and the woman from the newspaper starts snapping photos again. Sid’s hand clenches around mine as the man in the fedora strolls up to us.
“Sid Charles! And this must be your wife. Amy told me all about you.”
“Bradley.”
