I was planning to stop accepting summaries.

Two days after the morning beneath the willow, I boarded a flight to Tennessee.

I took the ring, copies of the relevant papers, and a notebook.

I did not take the urn.

Patrick would remain at home until I understood enough to bring him back to the lake without carrying a story I knew was incomplete.

On the flight, I stared out the window.

For forty years, he had been the person I would have called if I discovered something frightening.