Chapter 24: The Porch Light

I found him at the end of the lane, in the dark, under a work lamp clamped to the cedar post.

He was crouched in front of the mailbox with a can of white paint at his feet and a brush the width of his thumb.

The cord of the lamp ran back across the grass, and it ended in the porch light's socket.

"You took the bulb," I said.

He didn't jump.

"I needed it for the lamp."

"For the mailbox."

I came closer.

The old letters on its side had faded years ago.

A new name was going on in careful white capitals.

LINDG, it said so far.

He had stopped there because he'd heard me on the gravel.

"Grandpa painted the old one," he said, without looking up. "It's been gone since he died. Ardis never could stand to redo it."

"And now she lets you."

"I asked her first. She said it was about time somebody did."

I looked at the half-finished name.

Mine, in his careful hand, at the end of Grandma's lane.

"Nolan."

"You don't have to stay," he said. "I want that said, so it's said."

"You've got your mother's money, and a job, and a house with your name in a will."

"You can go anywhere. Dayton, or Chicago, or someplace with an ocean."

He wiped the brush on the can's rim.

"I don't want you here because there's nowhere else. I've seen what that looks like on a person."

I took the brush out of his hand.

"I know where I can go," I said. "I've known for about a week."

"Keeley."

"I could go anywhere, and I haven't wanted to be anywhere else since the night you opened that door."

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