Chapter 7: Dry Land

I took him to the sea by way of my kitchen, because he couldn't walk yet and the boathouse wasn't safe.

Gus drove his truck right up to the door and backed it to the porch.

We got Soren into the cab in my father's flannel shirt and a pair of my father's jeans, which stopped three inches above his ankles.

"Don't say anything," Soren said, looking down at them.

"I wasn't going to."

"You were thinking it."

"I was thinking they look great."

Gus coughed into his fist.

My father's house stood on the bluff above Gull Lane, gray shingles and a crooked porch.

I hadn't let anyone in it since the funeral except me and the electric company.

The kitchen looked out over the whole harbor.

I sat Soren at the table in front of the window and put the kettle on, and he stared out at the water for a long time without saying a word.

Gus set a paper bag on the counter.

"Doughnuts," he said. "And I'm going back to the slip. You call if the gold-haired one comes by."

"She'll come."

"Then I'll be rude to her."

He left, and the screen door banged.

I put a mug in front of Soren.

He looked at it.

"It is hot," he said.

"It's coffee."

"What is coffee?"

"It's what keeps this town upright."

He sipped it.

His whole face crumpled.

"It is terrible."

"Yes."

"Why does everyone drink it?"

"Because you don't have a choice, once you start."

He took a second sip, thoughtfully.

"It is growing on me," he said.

I laughed, and the sound surprised me.

I hadn't laughed in this kitchen in six years.

He stood up an hour later.

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