Two headlamps light their way as they dismount the canoe from the roof, and then portage it for a half mile through the woods.

T.J., Barbara knows, is growing nervous: the whole plan will fail if she isn’t back on the grounds of Camp Emerson before the rest of the staff wakes up. And so Barbara picks up her pace, despite the fact that her lungs are burning, despite the fact that the backpack she carries is weighing her down.

“We’re almost there,” says T.J., again and again.

•   •   •

The sun is rising as the two of them row quietly over the surface of the lake, toward an island in its middle. As they approach, Barbara can see—just beyond the tree line—the flat surface of a man-made structure.

“Remember there’s deer here,” says T.J., climbing out of the stern of the canoe and onto the shore. “You can always hunt for deer. There’s two guns in the house, and plenty of shot.”

Barbara has a sudden flash of her own mother following her, ghostlike, about the house—admonishing her not to eat so much. The opposite, always, of T.J., who throughout her life has fed her every chance she got—even coming to Barbara’s school from time to time to hand-deliver coats and clothing and other treats she knew Barbara liked.

She used to sneak in and out a window to do so.

It was never a problem, until the one time she was seen by the house mother from behind, and Barbara—flustered, in a panic—said that T.J. had been a teenage boy.

From there, things went terribly wrong.

“I’ll remember,” says Barbara, now. “I remember everything you taught me.”

•   •   •

They’ve reached their destination. For a moment, the two of them regard each other.

“Go,” says Barbara.

“You’ll be fine,” says T.J.

“I’ll be fine,” says Barbara.

•   •   •

Now Barbara stands on the shore of the island, watching T.J. move away in her canoe. She waits until she can’t hear the dip of the paddle into the lake, until T.J. disappears, at last, into the forest on the other side, turning back with one last wave before she goes.

Barbara closes her eyes. She listens, waiting for a sign: and a hermit thrush answers with its beautiful song.

She walks to the cabin that the Hewitts built, many generations prior. Inside, it’s cool and shadowy and stocked with the supplies that T.J. has been ferrying over for months, in anticipation of her stay.

Something new is in the corner: an acoustic guitar. A beginner’s instruction book. A way, Barbara realizes, for her to make her own music.

She sets her heavy pack down gratefully on the ground. At the top is the paper bag she brought with her from Self-Reliance.

She opens it, pulls out the one nonessential object she permitted herself to transport today: it’s a framed picture of her brother, Bear.

He, too, will have a home here.

She sets the picture on the rough table at which she’ll eat her meals.

You’re safe now, she tells her brother, in her mind.

Judyta

1950s | 1961 | Winter 1973 | June 1975 | July 1975 | August 1975 | September 1975

At the edge of a lake fifty miles north of the Van Laar Preserve, Judy Luptack stands with her hands on her hips, squinting toward an island in the distance. She has brought no boat with her.

She’s trying to estimate the distance between the shore and the island. Half a mile; maybe slightly more. She’s never been a strong swimmer, but she takes off her shoes and dips a toe in nonetheless, testing the water.

It’s freezing. For a moment, Judy rethinks her decision. She has no evidence that she’ll find anything on the other side. It’s a Saturday. Her day off. She could go home, back to her rental in Ray Brook; she could go to the grocer and buy food for dinner. Already, she’s learning the names of the people in the town. She could be doing anything she wants. Instead—pulled by a hunch that she hasn’t been able to shake, ever since she spoke to Louise Donnadieu—she strips down to her bathing suit. Plunges into the cold water before her.

She has no idea how long the swim will take her. You can always float, she tells herself. If you get tired, you can float.

•   •   •

As she swims, she thinks. If she’s right in her theory—if she’s right, which remains to be seen—she can understand the logic at every step: the bloody uniform that resulted from what Christopher Muldauer described as Barbara’s accident on the Survival Trip. The sudden realization, for T.J. and Barbara, of how useful it might be. Planting those clothes in John Paul McLellan’s trunk would serve a dual purpose: not only would they throw investigators off the scent of where Barbara had really gone—but they would function as a neat form of justice. Justice for Louise Donnadieu, who had once gone to T.J. with fresh injuries, inflicted on her by John Paul. Justice for Carl Stoddard, who was himself framed after death by two families—the McLellans, the Van Laars—who wished to preserve their good reputations. To avoid a scandal, at the expense of an innocent man. Justice, too, for T.J. Hewitt’s own father—who had entered into the sort of agreement that went against his own set of ethics. Reduced him to something no better than the Van Laars themselves.

With two simple actions—revealing the truth about Bear, and helping Barbara to hide—the Hewitts have redeemed themselves. They’ve retraced their steps to their last wrong turn, and taken a different path instead.

•   •   •

It’s difficult to know how much time has elapsed since Judy left the opposite shore. Sometimes, she takes her own advice and floats, looking straight up into the blue September sky. She closes her eyes. Lets herself be cradled by the water. Then goes on.

•   •   •

At some point, the shore in front of her is closer than the shore behind. She stops, treads water. If she squints, she thinks she can see a trail of smoke rising into the sky, as if from a chimney.

•   •   •

At last, she makes land. And in the near distance, she sees a figure peer out from behind a tree.

Barbara Van Laar.

Judy would recognize her anywhere, though she’s never seen her in the flesh.

From the water, Judy raises a hand in the air, tentatively. Barbara won’t know who Judy is; she was gone long before the state police descended on the grounds. Judy has the feeling of looking through a one-way mirror, knowing far more about Barbara than Barbara understands. In her bathing suit, trembling with cold, Judy must look slightly ridiculous, amateurish: an especially adventurous hiker or camper, who didn’t expect to be seen.

Across from her, Barbara stands still, both hands at her sides.

“Are you all right?” Judy calls out.

“Yes,” Barbara says. Then—“Are you?”

Judy nods.

“Do you want me to leave you alone?” says Judy.

For an instant, Barbara hesitates.