Chapter 8

The morning came in gold.

Marcus woke in his own bed, which he had not expected—he had thought he might sleep on the couch, or maybe not sleep at all. But exhaustion had pulled him under, and he woke to the amber light of a summer sun pouring through the window, and the smell of coffee, and the sound of his father laughing in the kitchen below.

He lay there for a moment, letting the sound wash over him. He hadn't heard his father laugh in—he couldn't remember. He had to think hard, reaching back through the years, and the memory felt like something from a different life. A barbecue in the back garden, his father telling a story about a fishing trip, his mother rolling her eyes from the grill.

He had thought that life was gone forever. He had thought his father was gone forever. And now his father was downstairs, laughing, alive.

He got up, pulled on jeans and a t-shirt, and padded downstairs in his bare feet.

The kitchen was warm. His father sat at the table, wrapped in a blanket, the small figure beside him, both of them looking at something on the table. A photo album.

"Look at this," his father said, pointing at a photograph, and the small figure looked where he pointed, her head tilted.

"The tree with the rope swing," she said.

"The very same." His father smiled. A real smile, crooked and tired, but real. "That was taken the summer I got the boat."

Priya stood at the counter, pouring coffee. She turned when Marcus walked in, and she looked at him with a quiet measure.

"Morning," she said. "There's eggs and toast if you want them."

Marcus took the cup she offered. He drank. The coffee was strong, dark, exactly how he liked it. He looked at his father, at the small figure, and then at the window, where the lake glinted at the bottom of the garden, holding the sunlight like a promise.

"Dad," he said, "do you still want to go?"

His father looked up from the photo album. In the morning light, his eyes were clear. Tired, but clear.