"Well, you could share it with me," he replied, looking annoyed. I smiled.

"Frankly, I don't think you'd believe me," I told him. "Do you need me to do any more tests?"

"They'd like to see you in the city again, just to confirm some of their findings."

"Immediately?"

"Soon would be better, but that's up to you. If you feel well, Christopher, that's what matters," he told me. "Let me get you that cream, and you can get out of here."

I stopped him with a hand on his arm as he was headed for his supply cabinet.

"Does this...happen to people?" I asked. "I mean, is this documented or anything?"

He shook his head. "When you moved here I did a lot of reading. God knows I'm no heart specialist, but I know just about as much as anyone does about yours. You shouldn't have expected it would go away -- you shouldn't now, until you've confirmed your results. If you're healed I won't ask too many questions, but if you're not..." he gave me a regretful look. "You know you'll be lucky to make it another ten years, Christopher. You have to know that."

"Yeah," I said. "Appreciate the honesty, Kirchner."

I let him go, stood there and waited, gripped the tube of scar cream when he pressed it into my hand.

"You all right, son?" he asked. I nodded.

"Fine. Thanks for the news. I'll see what I can do about getting up to the city soon," I said. I put on my coat, stepped out into the cold, and walked back up the street to Dusk Books. Inside, I took my pulse, fingers pressing lightly against the artery at my throat.

Steady and even. Seventy beats per minute. I put my hand over my heart and could imagine Lucas's hand there under it. A good heart meant I had a choice. I could leave if I wanted, permanently leave. I could go back to Chicago, which I'd missed in my first year in Low Ferry with a desperate longing that had only begun to fade with my second summer in the village.

But...it had faded. And I'd already made my decision.

***

In Chicago, they joke that "spring'll be on a Tuesday this year," but in Low Ferry spring comes a little earlier and stays longer. I promised myself I'd visit the city soon, but it was April before I knew it and with the warm weather came more customers. I propped my green door open permanently and began using the glass door again. One sunny morning, I borrowed the ladder from the cafe and hauled a bucket of black paint and a brush up the ladder to retouch my sign.

"Hiya, Christopher!" Paula called, as I was carefully going over the curve of the u in Dusk. "Nice day for painting!"

"Yup," I called back, turning the brush a little to keep it from dripping as I pulled it back. I started on the upright. "Spring's early this year."

"Are you complaining?" she asked, climbing the steps and leaning against the support-pole nearest me.

"Not at all. You must be doing good business."

She laughed. "Yeah, everyone's fixing all the things they've been putting off because of winter."

"Nice work if you can get it. All my customers are out sniffing roses and wandering the fields and stuff." I refreshed the brush and dabbed at a stubborn knot in the wooden sign that never took paint well.

"Tourists'll be in soon enough," she said.

"Don't I know it. Bert just had a whole shipment of decongestants come in."

"I stocked up on tire irons and tent patch kits," she agreed. "What about you?"

"Flower identification guides," I said, absently thumbing away a smear of misplaced paint in one curve of the s. "Camping handbooks. Lots of picture books to keep the kids busy.

"And a pretty new coat of paint on your sign," she said, smiling up at me.

"That too," I agreed. "You have to look nice for the city folk."

"You really want to look nice, you'll – "

" – rip out the porch and put in a new one, yeah. Maybe in the summer," I told her. "And I'm going to do it myself. It'll be good."

"What about your heart?" she asked. I carefully applied myself to the fickle angles of the k.

"I haven't had an episode in months," I said. "I'm going up to Chicago sometime, but I think the worst of it's past me, you know? I feel better than I ever have."

"Low Ferry worries about you," she said seriously.

The weird thing is, that felt good. No twinge of regret that I was different, no irritation over being handled. Low Ferry worried about me, because I was one of theirs – even if it might be another decade before I wasn't also the city boy.

"I know," I answered, climbing down the ladder to shift it over so I wouldn't have to stretch to reach the s in Books. "And I'm glad. Just...don't worry too much." I gave her a smile. "I'm okay, Paula. Really."

She grinned and gave me a hug, careful not to spill the paint.

"Well, I'm glad," she said. "Now, how much lumber can I get you for that porch?"

***

What finally sent me to Chicago for those tests the doctors wanted was a phone call to Marjorie, which in turn was spurred by another Low Ferry departure.