She stared at him, trying to decide if she was glad to see him, terrified, or both.

“What are you doing here? You scared the shit out of me.”

“If you hadn’t been blasting music directly into your ear canals, you might have heard me calling your name.”

Yes, definitely could be a bit of an asshole.

“My birth mother took drugs when she was pregnant with me. It made me very fussy as a baby, and only music calmed me down enough to sleep. Stevie Nicks—probably because she’s literally the fairy queen of rock—works better than any other music.” She paused for a breath. “Sorry, I didn’t need to tell you that, but the doctors said the drugs probably wired my brain a little differently. To quote my seventh-grade teacher verbatim—‘Emilie has trouble self-censoring.’ ”

“I find that refreshing actually.” He glanced around at the center grounds. “Are you Catholic?”

“I’m nothing. What are you?”

“I’m everything,” he said.

“This is a bizarre conversation. I’m extremely freaked out.”

Understatement. Her heart pounded. She’d never expected to see him again, and suddenly here he was? But under all her fear was hope. He wouldn’t have driven all the way to tiny Milton, Ohio, just to say hi, right?

“Sorry.” He shrugged. “But it’s only going to get worse before it gets better.”

“Will it get better?”

“Yes, if you can answer a couple questions for me.”

“Um…okay?”

“Why didn’t you want to be found?” he asked.

“What?”

“I know it sounds like an existential question, but I’m being literal. Were you scared of someone finding you?”

Not often in her life, maybe twice, had Emilie been speechless. This made three.

“How did you know?”

“So I’m right. You didn’t want to be found?”

“I’m adopted. And the adoption was legal, except nobody ever knew who my biological father was, so he never signed off on it. Mom was always a little worried he’d show up out of nowhere and try to contest the adoption. She never told me that, but when I was four or five I overheard her talking to a friend about it. I prayed a lot as a kid that nobody would ever find me.”

“Then your mother died and you started feeling lost?”

“Very lost. Yeah. Who wouldn’t?” She took a step toward him.

He took a long breath, then looked up to the sky as if he’d finally understood some deep mystery the universe had been keeping from him.

“How did you know?” she asked. “I mean, that I didn’t want to be found?”

He ignored the question and instead pointed at the stone platform, spinning his finger to indicate the painted twisting lines. “What is this?”

“A labyrinth?” she said. “You’ve never seen one?”

“Where’s David Bowie?”

“Ha ha.” She was freaking out and he was making film references. “A labyrinth is a spiritual journey in miniature. They took the concept of a ‘pilgrimage to the Holy Land’ and shrunk it.” With both hands, she mimed shrinking the world down to a size walkable in ten minutes. “That’s a labyrinth.”

“Thank you, Princess.”

She stared at him. “Why did you call me Princess?”

“Why does it bother you?”

“I didn’t say it did.” It did, in fact, but she hadn’t said it bothered her, so technically, she wasn’t lying.

She waited for more of an explanation but didn’t get one. Jeremy moved to the start of the labyrinth and began to walk it.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Going on a spiritual pilgrimage in miniature. More questions. Ready?”

“Ask away.”

“What would you say if I said your sister had been abducted by aliens?”

“You think my sister was abducted by aliens?”

“I don’t think that at all. But if I did think that, and I told you she’d been abducted by aliens…what would you say?”

“I would say…‘Goodbye, Jeremy? Thanks but no thanks.’ ”

“Fair. Very fair. Next question. Do you believe in Heaven or Hell? Other planes of existence? Other realities? Anything like that?”

“I…I don’t know.” She turned as he turned, following his slow, winding progress. “Maybe? I have trouble believing this is all there is.”

“Good start. What about miracles? Resurrections, et cetera?”

“Not really, no.”

“Why not? Skeptic or cynic?” The path made almost a complete circle before doubling back. Jeremy nearly stepped off the line but gracefully caught himself at the last moment, pivoted, then carried on.

“Both. My mom was Catholic. Mostly in name only, but she did go to mass sometimes. When she was diagnosed, Father John gave her a St. Agatha medal. She’s the patron saint of breast cancer patients. Mom loved it, wore it, and prayed to St. Agatha. Then she died. And the medal’s lost now, which sucks. A lot. She wanted to be buried wearing it, but I couldn’t find it. Ask me how good that made me feel.” She stopped for another breath. “Anyway, Mom was the best mom ever. Hands down. No contest. And she died horribly of a horrible disease with that medal around her neck that was supposed to help heal her. Wouldn’t you be a skeptic or a cynic too?”

He stopped about two feet from her, still not at the center but getting closer.

“Try asking St. Anthony for help finding your medal. One saint to another.”

“Which one’s he? I forgot.”