Chapter 1

Chapter

One

I’m standingin our orchard again.

Considering it’s been thirteen years—exactly half my lifetime—being here doesn’t feel as weird as I thought. And walking here from the ferry dock only took ten minutes. Either Sunrise Island is smaller or my legs are a lot longer.

“Down you go,” I grunt, swinging my backpack to the ground and leaning it up against the little white fence. Or what I think is the fence, under all the grass and blackberry brambles.

Then I pull out my precious yellow paper envelope and open it up, thumbing through the photos inside.

Decades flick past in a heartbeat. A few precious photos in grainy sepia, more in black and white, and then Dad’s Polaroids and a couple of Mom’s artsy point-and-shoot snaps.

And, of course, my most treasured possession: a map of the orchard, hand-drawn on aging paper. Even the Ziploc bag it’s tucked into is old enough to be in a museum.

There it is, the Polaroid taken from the very spot I’m standing. It’s me age five. I’m trying to hide from the camera by climbing up an apple tree. Honestly, it’s pretty on-brand for me. I’ve never been keen on attention.

I step off the gravel road into the long grass, turning this way and that until the trees line up.

“That one.”

Like everything, it’s smaller compared to my six-foot-three grown frame. A lifetime fighting its brethren for sunlight and slowly losing the battle against the weeds has left it stooped and gnarly.

I tuck the Polaroid back into the envelope, slide it into my back pocket, and slap my palm against the tree trunk. It’s still solid. We should be able to save it easily enough.

“Don’t worry, old boy. Grandma sent me to take care of you.”

All of a sudden, my throat’s real tight. I clear it a few times, blinking until the world is less watery.

“By the end of the summer, you won’t even know yourself,” I promise the orchard at large, grabbing my backpack again to drop it off next to the boarded-up little cabin.

Home, sweet home, right?

My great-grandparents first built the cabin when they moved here. It’s spent decades as a storage shed, but it’s about to become my new home.

Even if my family thinks I’m crazy for it.

My phone chimes with my mom’s ringtone, and I grab it to glance at the wall of text in my messages.

MOM:

How is everything? Are you sure you’re OK living in the old cabin? It’s warm enough at night? You’re always welcome here! Make sure you get groceries soon, Dad says the store sometimes closes early. And take lots of photos of everything. PS: Lasagna this weekend, your favourite! xoxo

I chuckle to myself and shake my head, tapping out a reply while I stroll back toward the road.

GAGE:

Thanks, Mom. It’s beautiful here. Can’t wait to tell you everything over lasagna on Sunday. Photos coming soon!

Mom’s right. I’ll need easy canned food to eat on my camp stove until I get the utilities turned back on. But I’m not telling her that, or she’ll insist that I come home for dinner every night.

Some small part of me still expects to stumble up the hill to the new house, tracking mud into Grandma’s kitchen, hungry and tired from a day of fighting shadows in the orchard.

I can’t stop remembering that last glorious summer. It was a hot August, and the air felt like molasses. Time stood still, yet I felt something nearby gathering speed.

Then, September came and everything changed. I went back to school, Grandma decided to move off the island to be closer to my parents, and we sold the new house.

My chest goes tight again.

It’s strange to be back here without Grandma. But it feels like she’s smiling down at me right now. She always knew I was going to make her proud. That’s why she left me this place.

That, and nobody else in my family is dumb enough to want it. But I think this tangled old orchard is destined for greater things.

My mom’s the only one who agrees with me. She’s always had a soft spot for this quirky place. But it’s in the mom rules—she has to believe in my crazy ideas.

I tap my phone a few times to snap photos of the orchard. Then I dig out the Polaroid of me as a kid and hold it up to the camera, standing next to that same tree to take a selfie for Mom.

At least I don’t look like I’m being strangled.

There. Sent. Mom can stop worrying that I’ll somehow get lost or eaten by bears.

Gravel crunches on the road behind me, and I turn to see a golf cart. There’s almost no cars on the island, so most people have one. Or at the very least, a wheelbarrow to haul stuff around.

That reminds me…

I dig out my notepad to scrawl “wheelbarrow” on the growing to-do list, and then I glance up at the driver. He’s about my dad’s age, but I don’t recognize him.

He slows down as he passes by. “Morning!” he calls, craning his neck around to see if the orchard behind me looks any different.

“Morning!” I answer, grinning as I lean on the fence and watch him go.

My new neighbour is patting down the tote bags on the seat beside him like he’s searching for his phone. And he keeps sneaking glances over his shoulder at me, swerving wildly more than once before he disappears from view again.

The whisper network is on it. I give it a day before everyone on the island knows who I am and why I’m here. So, before I put away my notepad, I add “working freezer” to the list.

I can practically feel the welcome lasagnas hurtling my way. And pie. So much pie. Sunrise Island loves pie.

It’s almost lunchtime. My stomach grumbles, making my next decision easy. I’ll head up to the island’s only restaurant for lunch—and a slice of today’s special pie.

And I’ll pray that—somehow—everything will fall into place.