As she walked, she wondered why she was leaving Pete behind.
A few minutes ago, she had told Pete she loved him.
And—it took him a while—but Pete eventually told her that he loved her, too.
And now Ginette was hurt and sad and confused—and leaving Pete behind.
And she shouldn’t have been leaving Pete.
She should have been staying with him and sitting on the bench with him, basking in some sort of afterglow or something.
But she wasn’t staying and sitting and basking in any sort of glow.
She was leaving. Because when she poured her heart out to Pete and told him that she thought she was about as close to him as she could possibly be, he said, “Not really.”
He could have said, “Yeah.”
Or, “Cool.”
Or nothing.
But he said, “Not really.” And then went on to say that Ginette wasn’t really close to him at all. That she was actually about as far away from him as she could possibly be.
What did he mean?
And why had he said that—when he had said it?
* * *
Soon the path merged with the Road to Nowhere, and Ginette crossed the road for safety, so she would be walking against traffic, so she could see the headlights of oncoming vehicles before they saw her.
She stayed close to the snowbanks—which were almost as tall as she was. And continued west.
And, at 7:50, she came to the Gallaghers’ potato farm, where Ginette’s mom had picked potatoes when she was a teenager, back when the farm was still operational. Schools in northern Maine closed for three weeks every fall so high schoolers could help farmers get their crop out of the ground. Not many farmers employed hand pickers anymore, so Ginette hadn’t been able to find work over the last few harvests. But she’d be sixteen in the summer—old enough to work on one of the Norsworthys’ mechanical harvesters in the coming fall. And she hoped Mrs. Norsworthy would hire her.
As Ginette walked, she wondered what she was going to do with the rest of her evening.
She’d be home—alone. Because her mom was working.
And she wasn’t sure she wanted to be alone.
But that’s what she was.
And then she started wallowing in her loneliness—and wondered if she was going to be alone for the rest of her life. Like the Gallaghers’ son, East—who was about to experience one of the extraordinary things that did or didn’t happen on that Friday night.
But East Gallagher didn’t feel like he was about to experience anything extraordinary when Ginette walked by his house.
It had been a pretty ordinary day.
He had plowed some driveways.
And shoveled some walkways and paths to oil fills and propane tanks.
And now he was eating his dinner: noodles with hamburger and butter and some peas and potatoes.
When he was done, he let Hound lick off his plate, and then he put it in the white enamel-coated cast-iron basin in his kitchen.
He looked at the Wildflowers of Maine clock over the sink and it told him it was 8:20. Time for bed. East still woke up at 4:30 a.m. like he did when he was a farmer. So he still went to bed at 8:30.
He headed over to the staircase landing and flicked off the downstairs lights and flicked on the upstairs hall light. “Come on, Hound.” Hound obeyed and started up the stairs a little more slowly than he used to, and East followed, a little more slowly than he used to. And the two large creatures lumbered up the stairs. When they reached the second-floor landing, canine and human shuffled into the room East had slept in his whole life. It was a large room with a big picture window that afforded a view of the backyard and, beyond it, the first potato field his parents ever planted.
Hound hauled himself up onto the bed with some help from his owner. East pulled the covers back and his old pup thunked down on his side of the bed and curled up into a dog doughnut. East kissed Hound on the head and pulled the covers over him and wished he could fall asleep as fast as his best friend did. Then he turned his bedside lamp on and went to the bathroom and brushed his teeth and then flicked the hall light off and went back into his room.
He was about to get out of his Carhartts and Scotch-plaid flannel and turn off his bedside lamp and slide into his side of the bed—when he found himself drawn to his bedroom window. He stared out the glass pane and had the strangest, strongest feeling that someone was out there. Someone he wanted to know. Or needed to know.
But he couldn’t see anyone—or much of anything, save for his reflection in the glass. So he went over to his bedside lamp and switched it off and went back to the window.
His eyes eventually adjusted to the darkness, and he could make out the silhouettes of the old barn and the Dr. Seuss–like spruce trees in his backyard, and beyond it, the expanse of the old potato field.
And he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was out there.
But he couldn’t see anyone. Which wasn’t too surprising. Because it was dark out there.
And then he shook off the feeling, because why would anyone be out there in the middle of the night in the middle of winter?
So he peeled off his Carhartts and his flannel and went to bed. And lay there for a while. And was cold. Bedrooms in Maine are always cold in winter.
But soon his body heat warmed the bed covers enough that he started to drift off to sleep—but only started. Before he completely fell asleep, he was roused by a strange lightness that seemed to be filling his insides. The lightness made him feel like he had the glow of a welding torch burning inside him. And like he was floating in an inner tube on Echo Lake in the summertime.
It also seemed like it was what made him get out of bed and go to the window and look outside again.
East cupped his hands around his eyes and pressed his hands against the glass and stared out into the darkness, certain that someone was out there—someone he had to meet.
And then he slid his Carhartts on over his boxers and pulled his flannel over his gray T-shirt and hurried downstairs, where he put on a coat, pulled on some boots, grabbed his Maglite, and went outside to see who he might find out there in the darkness.
Motion-sensor lights flicked on when he went outside. They illuminated a portion of his backyard—and peeved him a little, because the light they threw allowed him to see only what was in his immediate vicinity and not what was out there in the darkness. And what he was looking for was out there in the darkness.
So he trudged through the deep snow, passed through the pool of light, and made his way into the darkness. Shortly after he did so, the motion-sensor lights flickered off. And he couldn’t see a thing. So he stopped and let his eyes adjust to the lack of light. As they did, he thought about how strange darkness is. It’s not there. But you can’t see through it. Not without a light, anyway. So he clicked on his Maglite and continued on his way to see if anyone was actually out there in the old potato field.
The going was difficult because the snow was thigh-deep in places. But he persevered. And after about a five-minute traipse, he stopped. Because he felt like he wasn’t alone.
Someone was definitely out there, he felt.
“Hello!” called East—loudly enough to be heard but gently enough not to frighten anyone.
“Hello!” called a woman’s voice cheerily. East shone his Maglite in the voice’s direction. And it revealed a woman looking intently up at the sky.