Isobel said. “Aren’t you, Grandpa?” Mr. Schuster nodded. “Bit,” he said. “Bit. . . bat. . .” He looked frustrated. Finally, he raised his hand to his face and touched the side of his nose with one finger. His hand shook as he dragged the finger across his cheek. He looked at me intently the whole time, as if he were trying to tell me something. I was almost positive I knew what he meant, but I wasn’t sure if I should admit it in front of Isobel. Isobel picked up a pad of paper from the bedside table, set it on Mr. Schuster’s lap, and pressed a pencil into his hand. “Can you write it, Grandpa?” she said. I watched Mr. Schuster make a squiggly upward line. The letters he formed were shaky, but I had no trouble reading what he wrote: Nick? I glanced at Isobel. “It’s okay,” she said. “I know you know him.” If that was true and if Nick had done all the things Glen had said he’d done, why had she let me into the house? “I think he wants to know if you’ve seen Nick,”
