But hadn’t Carmella lost three loved ones, counting the cook-her one and only child among them? How could Danny, who had lost an only child himself, not see Carmella as a sympathetic soul? He did see her as “sympathetic,” of course! Danny just didn’t want to be with Carmella-not at this moment, when the dual missions of sinking his father’s ashes and being with Ketchum were entirely enough.

“Where are they?” Carmella asked, as they drove into Errol.

“Where are what?” Danny said. (They’d just been talking about taxidermy! Did she mean, Where are the dead stuffed animals?)

“Where are Gamba’s remains-his ashes?” Carmella asked.

“In a nonbreakable container, a jar-it’s a kind of plastic, not glass,” Danny answered, somewhat evasively.

“In your luggage, in the trunk of the car?” Carmella asked him.

“Yes.” Danny didn’t want to tell her more about the container itself-what the contents of the jar used to be, and so forth. Besides, they were coming into the town-such as it was-and while it was still light, Danny wanted to get his bearings and have a look around. That way, it would be easier to find Ketchum in the morning.

“I’ll see you bright and early Tuesday,” the old logger had said.

“What’s ‘bright and early’?” Danny asked.

“Before seven, at the latest,” Ketchum said.

“Before eight, if we’re lucky,” Danny told him. Danny had his concerns about how bright and early Carmella could get up and be fully functioning-not to mention that they were spending the night a few miles out of town. There was no proper place for them to stay in Errol, Ketchum had assured Danny. The logger had recommended a resort hotel in Dixville Notch.

From what Danny and Carmella could see of Errol, Ketchum had been right. They took the road toward Umbagog, past a general store, which was a liquor store, too; there was a bridge over the Androscoggin at the east end of town, and a fire station just west of the bridge, where Danny turned the car around. Driving back through town, they passed the Errol elementary school-they’d not noticed it the first time. There was also a restaurant called Northern Exposure, but the most prosperous-looking place in Errol was a sporting-goods store called L. L. Cote.

“Let’s have a look inside,” Danny suggested to Carmella.

“Just so long as it’s before dark!” she said again. Carmella had been one of the earliest erotic stimulations of his life. How could she have become such a repetitious old woman? Danny was thinking.

They both regarded the sign on the door of the sporting-goods store with trepidation.

PLEASE NO LOADED FIREARMS INSIDE

“My goodness,” Carmella said; they hesitated, albeit briefly, at the door.

L. L. Cote sold snowmobiles and all-terrain vehicles; inside there were dead stuffed animals, the regional species, enough to suggest that the local taxidermist was kept busy. (Bear, deer, lynx, fox, fisher cat, moose, porcupine, skunk-a host of “critters,” Ketchum would have said-in addition to all the ducks and the birds of prey.) There were more guns than any other single item; Carmella recoiled from such a display of lethal weaponry. A large selection of Browning knives caused Danny to reflect that probably Ketchum’s big Browning knife had been purchased here. There was also quite a collection of scent-elimination clothing, which Danny tried to explain to Carmella.

“So that the hunters don’t smell like people,” Danny told her.

“My goodness,” Carmella said.

“Can I help you folks?” an old man asked them suspiciously.

He was an unlikely-looking salesman, with a Browning knife on his belt and a portly appearance. His belly hung over his belt buckle, and his red-and-black flannel shirt was reminiscent of what Ketchum usually wore-the salesman’s camouflage fleece vest notwithstanding. (Ketchum wouldn’t have been caught dead in camouflage. “It’s not like a war,” the woodsman had said. “The critters can’t shoot back.”)

“I could use some directions, maybe,” Danny said to the salesman. “We have to find Lost Nation Road, but not until tomorrow morning.”

“It ain’t called that no more-not for a long time,” the salesman said, his suspicion deepening.

“I was told it’s off the road to Akers Pond-” Danny started to say, but the salesman interrupted him.

“It is, but it ain’t called Lost Nation-almost nobody calls it that, not nowadays.”

“Does the road have a new name, then?” Danny asked.

The salesman was eyeing Carmella disagreeably. “It don’t have a name-there’s just a sign that says somethin’ about small engine repairs. It’s the first thing you come to, off Akers Pond Road -you can’t miss it,” the old man said, but not encouragingly.

“Well, I’m sure we’ll find it,” Danny told him. “Thank you.”

“Who are you lookin’ for?” the salesman asked, still staring at Carmella.

“Mr. Ketchum,” Carmella answered.

“Ketchum would call it Lost Nation Road!” the salesman said emphatically, as if that settled everything that was wrong with the name. “Is Ketchum expectin’ you?” the old man asked Danny.

“Yes, actually, he is, but not until tomorrow morning,” Danny repeated.

“I wouldn’t pay a visit to Ketchum if he wasn’t expectin’ me,” the salesman said. “Not if I was you.”

“Thank you again,” Danny told the old man, taking Carmella’s arm. They were trying to leave L. L. Cote’s, but the salesman stopped them.

“Only an Injun would call it Lost Nation Road,” he said. “That proves it!”

“Proves what?” Danny asked him. “Ketchum isn’t an Indian.”

“Ha!” the salesman scoffed. “Half-breeds are Injuns!”

Danny could sense Carmella’s rising indignation-almost as physically as he could feel her weight against his arm. He had managed to steer her to the door of the sporting-goods store when the salesman called after them. “That fella Ketchum is a Lost Nation unto himself!” the salesman shouted. Then, as if he’d thought better of it-and with a certain measure of panic in the afterthought-he added: “Don’t tell him I said so.”

“I suppose Ketchum shops here, from time to time-doesn’t he?” Danny asked; he was enjoying the fat old salesman’s moment of fear.

“His money’s as good as anybody’s, isn’t it?” the salesman said sourly.

“I’ll tell him you said so,” Danny said, guiding Carmella out the door.

“Is Mr. Ketchum an Indian?” she asked Danny, when they were back in the car.

“I don’t know-maybe partly,” Danny answered. “I never asked him.”

“My goodness-I’ve never seen a bearded Indian,” Carmella said. “Not in the movies, anyway.”

THEY DROVE WEST OUT OF TOWN on Route 26. There was something called the Errol Cream Barrel & Chuck Wagon, and what appeared to be an immaculately well-kept campground and trailer park called Saw Dust Alley. They passed the Umbagog Snowmobile Association, too. That seemed to be about it for Errol. Danny didn’t turn off the highway at Akers Pond Road; he simply noted where it was. He was sure Ketchum would be easy to find in the morning-Lost Nation or no Lost Nation.

A moment later, just as it was growing dark, they drove alongside a field encircled by a high fence. Naturally, Carmella read the sign on the fence out loud. “‘Please Do Not Harass the Buffalo ’-well, my goodness, who would do such a thing?” she said, indignant as ever. But they saw no buffalo-only the fence and the sign.

The resort hotel in Dixville Notch was called The Balsams-for hikers and golfers in the warm-weather months, Danny supposed. (In the winter, for skiers certainly.) It was vast, and largely uninhabited on a Monday night. Danny and Carmella were practically alone in the dining room, where Carmella sighed deeply after they’d ordered their dinner. She had a glass of red wine. Danny had a beer. He’d stopped drinking red wine after his dad died, though Ketchum gave him endless shit about his decision to drink only beer. “You don’t have to lay off the red wine now!” Ketchum had shouted at him.