Ten

TEN

We take our drinks to the strange little sitting room, mostly because the lack of windows means we can close the door and not hear any buzzing. I stretch out on the sofa under the glass-eyed dolls while Jin takes the recliner and grumbles when the footrest smacks into the love seat.

"Are we sure this is actually a sitting room?" he says. "And not just the place where they store all the extra furniture and stuff no one wants to see, like freaky dolls?"

I tap a book. "We could call it the reading room instead."

"Yeah, I hate to break it to you, Nic, but for some people, books are as unappealing as those dolls."

I sigh. "Poor Jin. You just need to find the right one."

He reaches over to kick my foot. "I don't mean me. But I read this article a few months back about redecorating your apartment so it doesn't turn off potential lovers. Removing visible books was high on the list."

"The fuck you say."

"I do say. Apparently, it's a huge turnoff."

"The turnoff would be going into a guy's apartment and not find ing any books." I peer at him. "Why are you reading those articles? If you're dumping my brother, I want my wedding gift back."

He tosses a throw pillow at me. "I read the article because I saw it going around online, mostly for that ‘get rid of books' bullshit. Now, personally, if a guy didn't have any books, I'd stay… I'd just be gone by morning. One night does not require intelligent conversation. In fact, it can kinda get in the way." He waggles his brows.

"True," I say. "Long-term, though, I want to see books." I lean back into the sofa. "And books that look read. I dated a guy once who had this really impressive bookcase. Turned out it came—already filled—with the apartment."

"Ouch."

"Anton had books," I say. "Not a lot, because they were mostly fiction, and his apartment was tiny so he'd donate them after he was done. I pointed out the existence of libraries, but he liked new books. New paperbacks. Not hardcovers. Definitely not ebooks. Paperbacks he could read on the subway. And, to completely shut down that bullshit article, he got a lot of attention for his subway reading. People were always trying to strike up conversations about what he was reading, completely ignoring the fact that, for most of us, reading means we don't want conversation. But you know Anton. He was always polite, and always amazed by how many women wanted to talk books."

Jin lets out a snorting laugh. "Because that's really why they were talking to him on the subway."

"Why else? So many fellow book lovers in the world."

Jin shakes his head. A happy quiet settles, as that memory washes over me, but then it starts dragging along the reminder that I'm never again going to hear Anton telling me about the book a fellow subway rider recommended, writing down the title on the back of her business card.

I clear my throat. "So, how is married life? Everything you expected?"

He barks a laugh and then slaps a hand over his mouth, gaze shooting up toward those sleeping overhead. "If it was everything I expected, I really would be looking at those articles."

"So it has surpassed your very low expectations?"

"It has." He settles in, legs outstretched until his feet are on the love seat. "I never thought I'd get married. I mean, I knew I legally could. It's been an option since before I went on my first date. But my parents—as much as I love them—did not set a good example for marriage. Have you ever had two friends who just didn't get along? They only hung out together because of you?"

"Mmm, yeah. If it wasn't for me, you and Libby wouldn't be caught in the same room together." I smile over at him. "But yes, I understand the principle and the analogy. Your parents are good people, and you love them both, but you didn't want to be the reason for them staying together."

"Exactly. When they finally split, it was a relief, and they went on to happy and fulfilling lives apart, while my siblings and I learned that marriage might not be the can't-miss life experience the world says it is. I wasn't dead set against it, but if I did settle in with one guy, it would definitely not be a man with an ex-wife, two kids, and one foot still in the closet. I don't have time for that shit. And then along comes Keith and…" He shakes his head. "And suddenly I'm ready to make time for that shit."

"I'm glad you did. Keith is probably glad, too."

"Probably. Hard to tell sometimes. You know your brother."

"I do, and I know exactly how he feels about you, which you should never question even if I joke about it."

Jin shifts on his seat, the fake leather squeaking under his sweatpants. "I don't. That's the thing with Keith. He might have a toe in the closet even now, but that's just his nature."

"Takes him twenty minutes to wade past his knees in the lake, too."

"If he even goes that far, because first he has to check for pollution flags and undertow warnings, and where are the kids? Are they safe? Is anyone in too deep? Has he left anyone behind?"

I make a face. "Growing up with a chronically ill younger sibling can do that."

"Oh, don't blame the CF. The problem is growing up with a younger sibling who'd be running into that water, ignoring the pollution and undertow warnings, swimming past the buoys before anyone notices."

"And Keith was always there, pulling me back and giving me shit. Such a spoilsport."

"Which is why he's not here this week. We can love the guy while still not wanting him around sometimes."

He lifts his glass, and I lean over to clink mine against it.

Jin and I both fall asleep downstairs. I drift off first and wake first. He's sleeping so sweetly in the recliner that I can't help but smile… right before I arrange the dolls in a ritualistic circle around him and then I head to the kitchen.

It's almost eight, but the only person up is Dr. Cirillo, already working in the breakfast nook. I slip past unnoticed and brew a coffee. Then I do my nebulizer therapy, sitting and taking in medication through an inhaler while I read emails and type responses one-handed.

After that, I put on my vest. Having CF means daily airway clearance. That does not, thankfully, involve tubes down my throat or anything so invasive. When I was young, it did mean sitting in a chair for forty-five minutes a day, which might be how I came to love both reading and coding. People who know me marvel that I have a desk job. But books and code fully engage me, and if I'm fully engaged, I can indeed sit for hours.

Those old airway-clearance systems had to be plugged in, which kept me in one spot. I say "old" but they're still in use for children and those who can't afford my current vest, which cost more than my first car—and my second.

When Anton saw my vest, he said I looked ready to play laser tag. From the front it's like a black life jacket with a small plastic box and attached wires. The back is one big box—like a mini backpack—that holds the rechargeable battery and some of the mechanical parts that send high-frequency oscillations through my chest wall, thinning the secretions in my lungs and helping them keep moving along.

The vest weighs about twelve pounds, meaning I definitely know it's there. It's advertised as being suitable for walking and even jogging, but even I don't have the personal comfort level to wear it in public. At least not in Toronto. Here, though? I'm looking forward to combining two of my daily activities. A brisk five-kilometer walk before breakfast should give me my exercise and vest time.

I suit up, start my vest app, and pour my coffee into my travel mug. Then I swing open the back door and—

And jump back as a swarm of bugs rush at me.

Right. I forgot about the bugs.

I check my watch. It's still too early to text the owner. The bugs seem to be mostly out back, near the lake. Going out front should be fine.

I head through the house, step onto the front porch, and…

Okay, this isn't so bad. Fewer bugs, and they're only in the shade. When I walk into the morning sun, only a few float past.

I can do this. It's just bugs. Nonbiting flying insects. A mere annoyance that will not impede my enjoyment of this gorgeous spring morning.

I set out. I can feel the vest vibrating, but I'm used to it. As secretions move from my small airways to the large ones, I have to cough it out. I've preprogrammed the vest with cough pauses for that.

I walk briskly as I usually do to get my heart rate into the zone, but today I feel as if I'm marching to show the bugs that I'm not afraid of them.

The low drone of the vest does not, sadly, drown out the buzzing. It's kind of surreal. I've seen insect swarms before, but this is next level. The swarm has moved farther over the cliff and hovers there, where it swirls like a funnel cloud.

Are those more swarms over the lake?

My fingers itch to take out my phone and do some research, but I am walking in the beautiful May sunlight, on a peaceful morning by the lake, and I am damn well not going to be that city person with her gaze glued to her phone.

I'm training my gaze on the non-bug-infested portion of the scenery when I spot a distant figure. My hands fall self-consciously to my vest, but I stop myself.

As the figure draws closer, I realize it's Mrs. Kilmer. She's carrying a box, and the only place she could be heading is Eventide Manor.

I have the urge to veer off onto a path on my right. That urge brings a wave of guilt, as if I want to avoid Mrs. Kilmer herself, when I really just don't want to stop and chat to anyone. But when a bug bumps into me, I'm reminded that I have something to ask her about.

"Hello!" I call.

She smiles as she walks up, her gaze firmly on my face and avoiding my vest.

"Ignore this." I tap the vest. "I'm just heading out cliff-diving."

Her eyes widen in such horror that I feel terrible for the joke. "Kidding. It's a medical device. I have cystic fibrosis."

"Oh?" That same look returns as she stops short. "Oh! You have CF."

"You don't need to stay six feet away," I say, smiling. "If you've heard that, it only applies to me with other CF patients."

"I saw a movie about that," she says. "Two young people with CF who had to stay six feet apart."

I wrinkle my nose. "Mostly Hollywood nonsense. Basically, the rule is meant to guard against inhaling lung cultures other CF folks might be carrying. Precautions could be taken. As for the vest, it keeps me breathing. While I look like I'm ready to go boating, I don't think I'd be doing that today with these bugs."

She gives a soft laugh. "I'll bet that was a bit of a shock to wake up to. I thought I'd stop by with these." She lifts the box. "And also to make sure you knew about the midges."

"So it's not a sign of the apocalypse?"

Another laugh as she relaxes. "Oh, it might be, but it's a very short and regular apocalypse on Lake Erie. Every spring and fall, the lake flies invade. They mate and then return to the lake. Well, the females do. The males die, which is a whole other mess. The birds appreciate the feast, though."

"I bet they do. So this is a regular occurrence?"

She nods. "I thought I saw a swarm over the lake yesterday, and I considered mentioning it, but I didn't want to worry you, in case it turned out to be nothing. We really can't predict when—or even if—they'll arrive."

"How rude of them," I say.

"Very rude. But with any luck, this is the worst it will get. Walks are best in the sunlight. They don't bite, but they'll crawl over you and get in your mouth and nose."

I shudder. "As I discovered."

"Deeply unpleasant, but not dangerous. Keep the porch lights off at night. And if they get inside, try to scoop them in a tissue rather than crushing them. They leave a nasty stain."

Mrs. Kilmer peers over the lake. "Those swarms will hopefully land farther up or down the coast. Then these ones will be gone in a day or two."

"Thank you. For the bug intel and for…" I look at the box.

She hesitates, and I play back what she said. Did she not plan to give us whatever was in there? That would be incredibly awkward.

She holds out the box. "Yes, it's cookies. Chocolate chip and sugar. No nuts, in case that's an issue."

"It's not, but thank you."

She keeps her hold on the box even as I reach for it. "One other thing. My son seems to have stepped out last night, maybe for a walk. You haven't seen him, have you?"

I pause to process that. "You have a missing child?"

"Oh, no." A laugh that doesn't sell itself. At all. "Brodie is twenty-four. He came back home a few months ago. You know what it's like. Hard for young people these days to find steady work that pays the bills. He just wasn't home this morning, and his car's still in the garage, which means he went for a walk. He does that. He likes to come this way at night."

Last night? With the bugs?

Also, even at twenty-four, if I wasn't home by morning, Mom would have been calling in the search dogs.

To judge that, though, would be to judge Mrs. Kilmer as a parent, which is a shitty thing to do. Maybe her son has a hookup in town and doesn't always get back by morning.

That boy just loves his walks. Sleeps out under the stars and a layer of lake flies for a cozy blanket.

"I haven't seen anyone," I say. "If I do, though, I'll tell him you're looking for him."

"Brodie," she says. "His name is Brodie. He's five foot ten and a hundred and sixty pounds. Short light brown hair and blue eyes. He's probably wearing a ball cap and his plaid jacket."

That's… very specific. It sounds as if she'd given this information before, possibly to the authorities.

Is Brodie special needs? Or does he have mental-health issues? That would make this scenario a whole lot less confusing.

I can't ask that outright, so I say, "Is there anything else I should know?"

Her smile is a little too bright. "I don't think so. He's a very sweet boy. Quiet, but sweet."

Okay, so special needs or mental-health issues might be the answer, and she's afraid to say so, in case I'd jump to ignorant conclusions.

"Got it," I say. "I'll tell the others to keep an eye out for Brodie. Thank you again for the bug intel and the cookies."

I stop myself before asking if there's anything else I can do. That'd be my natural reaction. But while I'd certainly abandon our séances to join a search team, I can't offer.

I say goodbye and head off the other way, as if I'd only planned to walk this far. I have plenty of time. I can take the path along the clifftop, if it isn't too buggy, and then head inside for breakfast.

The walking plan dies before I even reach the house. The sun dips behind clouds and the midges descend. I pick up my pace, and within five steps, I'm testing out the vest's jogging-appropriate claim as I run for the door. I get inside and catch my breath.

There's still no one up except Dr. Cirillo, hard at work. I leave him to it and head into the kitchen to make breakfast while I finish my vest time. I eat in the kitchen, and part of that is about letting Dr. Cirillo work and part of it is about not being in the mood to make conversation. Even without small talk, I'd need to explain about the bugs and Mrs. Kilmer's son.

I'll wait until I can speak to everyone at once. While I eat breakfast, my mind wanders, not really touching down on any topic, just skimming above them, taking note of each.

Mrs. Kilmer's son. The midge invasion. The séance. Last night, hearing Anton's voice. The thumping that I never did investigate properly.

There's a lot to fret about, but I really do soar above all that, acknowledging it while untouched by it, at least for now. Everything that occurred last night—the rattling, the footsteps, my stumble on the stairs—had an explanation, and so the rest will, too.

By the time that's done, everyone's up, and I'm in the mood to be social over coffee and Mrs. Kilmer's excellent cookies.

Everyone agrees the midges are nothing more than inconvenient and annoying. It's bad luck that they arrived right here, right now, but it only means limiting our outdoor time and open-window time. Jin and Dr. Cirillo agree with my assessment of the Brodie Kilmer situation. The young man must have intellectual or mental-health challenges. All we need to do is be on the lookout for him if we go out.

"And… not to be paranoid," Jin says, "but if we're at all concerned about his mental health, I'm going to suggest no one goes walking alone."

I try not to squirm, but he sees it.

"I will brave the bug-pocalypse for you," he says. "Anytime you feel squirrelly, we'll walk together."

"What about the cliff?" Shania says.

Jin deadpans, "I will avoid the cliff and the attendant risk of being shoved over it."

Shania rolls her eyes. "I mean this guy. Brodie. What if he fell over? Isn't that a likely scenario, if he disappeared on a night walk?"

We're all silent, until I say, "I think, as someone who lives around here, that would be Mrs. Kilmer's first concern. But it didn't seem to be, so…"

"It is strange, isn't it?" Shania says, her voice dropping.

Jin shrugs. "She knows her son, and he's a grown man who probably grew up around here. He's not going to walk off the cliff. Now, what's on the agenda for today, Doc?"