July 4, Thursday

WHEN I went to unlock the graveyard gate the next morning, I spotted a handful of miniature American flags waving from graves in the rear of the cemetery that I hadn't noticed in the dusk of the previous evening when I'd gone to lock up. Although to be honest, I'd been so spooked at the idea of being in a cemetery as the sun was setting, I was singularly focused on the gate and getting the heck out of there.

But in the soft early morning light, the dew-dappled cemetery looked less menacing. My curiosity won out and I stepped inside the gate. A wide path of moss-covered stones led down the center of the graveyard and, upon closer inspection, acted as a divider between what appeared to be graves of the "haves" and the "have nots." On one side, headstones were tall and intricate; on the other, headstones were scarce and humble. Four of the five flags were on the "have nots" side. I was drawn to a grave where a flag waved in front of a short headstone with a shield cut into the discolored stone. The letters were worn and difficult to read, but I deciphered that twenty-year-old Cyrus Watt had lost his life in the Civil War, dying two months before the conflict ended. I felt a pang of sympathy for a life unlived, and it struck me if not for the humble headstone, Cyrus would've been forgotten. And from the eroding condition of the stone, it appeared it wouldn't be long before that happened.

I really needed to get some supplies—food, sturdy shoes, and an enormous flashlight for starters, so I decided to venture into the town of Irving. According to the map on my phone, despite its seemingly remote location, the Whisper House sat less than a mile from the town center.

In the barn I'd found a really decent pale blue cruising bicycle with two flat tires. But since I'd lived in Manhattan most of my life, I knew a thing or two about bikes. I'd reinflated the tires and lubed the chain. I found the brown basket in front of the handlebars charming. Inside was a dried bouquet of some kind of flower with lavender petals and a seedy cone-shaped center. When I touched the bouquet, the flowers shattered, a small thing that bothered me more than it should have.

I set off on the bicycle down the road I'd arrived on, noting that thankfully the farther away from the house I pedaled, the better the condition of the road. Still, the road was so narrow that if I were to encounter a car, I would probably stop and wait on the shoulder until it went by.

But thankfully, I didn't pass a car, and the route back to town was less complicated than I remembered.

And the town of Irving was much busier than I expected. Parked cars lined Main Street and the sidewalks were crowded with people. When I realized Main Street had been blocked off and American flags abounded, I gave myself a mental thump to the head.

I'd arrived in the middle of a Fourth of July parade.

Sure enough, a color guard of uniformed service men and women were marching toward me only a few yards away. I stopped, hopped off my bike, and hauled it to the sidewalk just as the group passed by. To my chagrin, the man holding the flag gave me an amused smile.

Sawyer King, looking very different in a dark blue dress military uniform.

My skin stung from embarrassment. And since I'd nearly crashed the parade, I felt obligated to stay and watch. The high school marching band was next, led by baton twirling majorettes. Then came floats of local organizations and businesses, beauty queens and kings of all ages riding in convertibles, Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, vintage cars, floats for churches (a boggling number of churches for such a small town), and bringing up the rear, horseback riders, some wearing costumes and riding decorated mounts. And it wasn't long before the horses revealed why they were last—so other participants didn't have to march through the mess they left on the street.

I wrinkled my nose from the smell, glad when the crowd began to disperse. I wheeled my bike along slowly, taking in the names of some of the businesses. Harding Hardware, Sophia's Jewelry & Watches, Blakemore Books.

Blakemore Books. A memory chord stirred in the back of my mind, but I couldn't recall why. Regardless, I intended to avoid it because if anyone in town might recognize my name, it would be someone associated with the bookstore.

And I'd come here to get away from all that.

I had turned my bike toward the hardware store when I noticed Sawyer King walking in my direction. Every few feet, someone stopped him to say something or shake his hand. The man was obviously some kind of hometown hero. He looked up and caught my gaze, gave me a head wave, then looked back to the person he was talking to.

I took advantage of his distraction to pivot, losing myself in the stream of people heading to (I overheard) something called a Bed Race, which turned out to be an entertaining and wildly unorganized spectacle. I kept an eye out for Sawyer King, but as it turned out, I didn't have to.

The man seemed to have disappeared. Pfew.