But instead I felt something I had not felt in six years: the specific, electric pull of a question that might, at long last, be about to get an answer.

I got my keys.

We went.

Chapter 18 — The Clerk Who Remembered

An hour later we walked into the lakeside outfitters, a cluttered, friendly place that smelled of rubber and bait and canvas, and I set the old driveway photograph down on the counter in front of an elderly clerk and asked him, with no real hope, whether he happened to remember anyone in it.

He picked it up.