Waaboo’s little brow furrowed in concern. “Maybe they’ve eaten them all by now.”

“Don’t worry,” Cork assured him. “Our blueberry patch has always produced enough for the animals and for us.”

It was mid-July of a summer that had so far been ideal. The morning air was sharp with the clean scent of pine. The sky was an arch of pure blue. Cork’s heart was full of gratitude. Stephen had been gone for two years, or mostly gone, finishing his degree at the University of Minnesota. Although he’d returned for brief visits, his focus was on his education. And on his girlfriend, now fiancée.

“Nervous at all about the wedding?” Daniel asked. “Still six weeks to change your mind.”

“Belle’s the best thing that ever happened to me,” Stephen said. “Besides, all the arrangements have been made.”

“If you ever decide to leave this family,” Cork said, “we keep Belle.”

“Leave?” Waaboo said.

“Just kidding, little guy,” Cork said. “And here we are.”

They’d circumnavigated a bog area and Cork parked on solid ground among a stand of birch. The men and the boy got out and grabbed their pails from the back of Cork’s Expedition.

“Where are the blueberries?” Waaboo said. “I don’t see any.”

“We have to walk a little,” Cork told him. “We don’t want anybody passing by to see where our patch is.”

“Nobody’s here,” Waaboo pointed out.

“You never know who might be watching,” Daniel said with a wink. “A good blueberry patch is worth more than gold.”

They skirted the bog, following a path almost impossible to see because it was trod only in July, when the blueberries of the North Country had ripened. As they walked, Cork studied the ground with growing concern.

“Somebody’s been here,” he said quietly.

“How do you know?” Waaboo asked.

“See all those broken plants?” Cork pointed toward a growth of rattlesnake ferns in front of them. “Somebody’s trampled their way through. And there.” He pointed toward a footprint in soft dirt.

Waaboo looked up at his grandfather. “Were they after our blueberries?”

“We’ll know soon enough,” Cork said.

The patch lay on the far side of the bog. When they arrived, Cork and the others stood staring at the ravaged bushes.

“They picked everything,” Stephen said.

“Didn’t even leave something for the animals,” Daniel said.

Waaboo looked devastated. “Who were they?”

“Hard to say,” Cork replied. “Six-one-twoers, I’m guessing. Folks from around here would be more respectful.”

“Six-one-twoers?” Waaboo asked.

“It used to be the only area code for the Twin Cities,” Cork explained. “Not true anymore, little guy, but up here we still call them that, the people who come up from the Cities and trample everything.”

“No blueberries,” Waaboo said, clearly distraught.

“We’ll get blueberries, don’t worry,” Cork assured him. “I know another place.”

In dismal silence, they returned to the Expedition and Cork started back toward Iron Lake.

“Where to now, Dad?” Stephen asked.

“You remember an old Finn named Erno Paavola?”

“Not well.”

“I did a little bit of PI work for him, three or four years ago. He couldn’t pay in money, so he brought me three full buckets of blueberries, the biggest I’ve seen around here. He was a man who liked his liquor, and he was a little drunk when he gave me the buckets. He told me they’d come from his own private blueberry patch near his cabin. He passed away not long after I did the work for him. He had no family left around here, so I figure it’s up for grabs.”

“Where is it?” Daniel asked.

“A few miles southeast.”

“What if somebody already picked everything?” Waaboo said.

“Don’t worry,” Cork assured him. “Erno told me his patch was protected by gnomes.”

“Gnomes?” Waaboo said.

“You know about Irish leprechauns, right? Gnomes are kind of like Scandinavian leprechauns.”

Cork drove the county road south, then east two miles on gravel, and finally turned in to the ruts of a dirt lane that cut through a stand of mixed pine and spruce as it mounted a hill. In a clearing near the top of the rise, a cabin stood amid tall wild grass.

“Paavola’s place,” Cork said.

“Looks run-down,” Daniel said. “Abandoned?”

“As far as I know. But it looked pretty run-down when Erno lived here.”

Daniel nodded toward a little structure off to the side of the cabin. “An outhouse?”

“Erno lived off the grid,” Cork said. “Kept things primitive. He was sure the end of the world was just around the corner, and only those who were prepared to live without all the modern crap, as he put it, would survive.”

“Where are the blueberries?” Waaboo asked.

“I’m guessing we might have to walk a bit,” Cork said.

“There better be blueberries,” Waaboo warned.

Cork led the way to the rear of the cabin, where the wild grass ran another thirty yards to the forest edge. He stood a moment, scanning the trees.

“What are you looking for?” Stephen asked.