Chapter 12: Tamarack

Soren's POV

I slept in the car at the end of the lane.

I woke up at six with a cramp in my neck and the lake gray beyond the windshield.

I did not go back to the house.

I had given my word.

I drove into Grand Marais at seven and bought a coffee I did not drink.

I parked outside the Cook County Historical Society to wait for it to open.

It was a small white building with a flagpole, and a hand-lettered sign in the window that said Hours 8 to 4.

At eight exactly, an older woman in a green cardigan unlocked the door and looked at me with some suspicion.

"You're early," she said.

"I'm sorry. I need to see the records from a summer camp. Camp Tamarack."

"Are you family?"

"No." I hesitated. "I was a camper once."

It was the truth, and it was the first time in twenty-three years I had said it aloud to a stranger.

She sighed and let me in.

She led me to a back room that smelled of dust and cold paper.

She put a gray archival box on the table in front of me.

"Counselor logbooks, rosters, photographs," she said. "The director's daily notebooks are on top. Don't use a pen. Pencil only."

"Thank you."

"If you want to copy something, ask me."

She left, and the door sighed shut behind her.

I sat there for a minute with my hands flat on the lid.

I had been eight years old.

I remembered the dock, and the heat of the boards under my feet.

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