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Nick gets into one of the trucks with Damon, and Adam takes the other, and they set off for the village.

“Come on,” Jake says.

We trail after the vehicles down the dirt road, him quiet and walking six feet ahead. Chickadees move through the birches, and something rustles close by that I decide to ignore.

“You always lived out here?” I keep one eye on my surroundings. If there are bears in Ravenslight Creek, there are definitely bears out here.

“Yeah.” He’s about as chatty as Nick on a bad day. The track leads off the road and down to a thin strip of frozen water so narrow I could jump across it.

“This is the creek.”

“Nice.”

We stare at it for a solid five minutes before he moves on. After a slog through snow-covered ground full of holes and roots, we step out onto a flat clearing with a picnic table and a DIY grill made of cinder blocks and sheet metal, all of it under snow. Squat log buildings sit on either side of the only paved road in the village.

Jake decides this is where the tour ends, planting himself at the table and getting out his phone.

“Hey, how do you have a signal?” I slide onto the opposite bench.

“Satellite Wi-Fi.” He points to the roofline of the nearest building and a white box with antennas sticking out of it.

I rummage through my tote bag for my notebook and pen.

Jake looks up from his phone. “What’s that for?”

“I’m writing something. For the paper in Ravenslight.” Jake is the first person I’ve told, and it sounds like I’m playing pretend, dressing up like a journalist. Weird to say out loud, but I don’t hate it. “Just thought I’d make some notes while we’re passing the time.”

“Huh.” He goes back to his phone.

I take in the still, quiet morning, and write about the rush of the flight, the way the ice cracked under my boots, how there’s not another soul in the street, and it’s nearly eleven. Just me and Jake. The low chatter of some video he’s watching on his phone and the scratch of my pen across paper.

“Is it always this quiet?”

He picks at the rotting wood at the edge of the table.

“It’s Wednesday.”

Even in Ravenslight, there are usually people wandering down Main Street no matter what day it is. “So where is everybody?”

“Around.” A wood chip gets tossed on the ground. “People here don’t really hang out.”

He watches me write that down and stops picking at the wood.

“How long has your family been here?”

“Always.”

“Like, since Hollings started?”

“Before that.” He says it like it’s boring, then adds, “There wasn’t a village. There was us, and then there was a village.”

Before that. There’s barely a village now. I can’t picture the before.

I’m enjoying this more than Marthe’s pies, coffee, or possibly most of my life.

“Can I ask how old you are?”

There’s a pause. He looks down the deserted road. “Fifteen.”