The next morning I walked down to a creek where sunlight broke through the trees.

A neighbor named Mrs.

Bell met me beside her mailbox and introduced herself with the uncomplicated curiosity of someone who had lived in the woods longer than most people had owned a mobile phone.

“You’re staying with Silas?” she asked.

“Good man.

Fixed my bridge after the flood.”

“He works at the lumberyard?”

“He does when they need him,” she said with an amused expression.