Wade spotted the elevated sign first, a beacon hanging high over the rooftops meant to capture the attention of cars driving through on US 321. Boone was a city where few man-made structures even bothered to rival the mountain peaks surrounding the town. Accordingly, the sign stood out like God had taken a massive arrow and pointed it down to the station from the heavens above, and cars certainly flocked to it as though it were God's promised land. The sign advertised two things: cheap gas and a 24/7 convenience store. Car after car arrived with those expectations, leaving no gas station more reliably busy than Hal's Gas-n-Go. As Wade closed in on the base of the sign, he saw the small Perpetumart attached to the gas station come into view. It was an impressive little establishment, being one of Boone's only 24-hour shops, and it was also the place where Jackson Trent, Senior, currently worked. Wade pushed open the door, which set a bell hanging above jingling.

"Be with you in a moment," came a rasping voice a few aisles obscured from view. Wade looked around the shop, seeing only one other patron currently in the store. She was perusing through the myriad varieties of beef jerky.

Setting out towards the voice, Wade turned the corner and found Jackson Trent seated in a chair dragged into the aisle. He was a thin man with a dusting of gray working its way into his short-cropped black hair. His hands were thin and vascular, his face peaky and thinned. Still, he wore a smile and shuffled through the work amicably, tending to a box filled with cans of Campbell's soup at his feet. He was picking up the cans one at a time and sorting away to their respective homes in the shelf among the baked beans and tins of canned meat, sliding them around until they found their alphabetized spot. He turned as he heard Wade approach.

"Ah, Mr. Kerrigan… haven't seen you in a while," Jackson said. His words were short, disconnected things, as though each word were only thought up once he had fully concluded saying the previous one. "How're the folks doing?"

"They're doing well, sir," Wade replied, offering a friendly smile. He knew Skinny's dad had always been big on the whole sir and ma'am thing. "My mom just got a new teaching job over at State," he added, before realizing that maybe work wasn't the best topic to tread with Jackson.

"I just got me a new job, too," Trent Senior said with a smile, gesturing around the store. "It ain't as flashy as a university teaching job, no sir, but it's good, honest, work… them's that run the place don't mind me using a chair for shelving so I'm about as happy as can be."

"Do you guys still stock those cheese-filled pretzels you used to send with Skinny's lunch every day?"

"We didn't," Jackson said, before leaning in with a wry, conspiratorial grin. "But I ordered 'em in recently, just for the lot of you guys. Aisle 3, far right. Was gonna send Skinny over with a couple bags later in the week."

"Well I don't know about you, sir, but I'm definitely sold on this new job now," Wade said, offering the old man a fist bump. Without hesitation, Trent reached out and completed the gesture.

"Now, how can I help you, Mr. Kerrigan? You come out here just for pretzels?"

"No sir. We were looking for Skinny, actually… he around here?"

"That he is not… in fact, he didn't wake up this morning to join us for breakfast. Boys your age and sleeping in… you know what my father would've done if I slept through breakfast?"

"No sir, I do not…"

Jackson looked gravely serious. "We never dared so I don't know either," he said, before bursting into a wheezing fit of laughter at his own joke. He then recaptured some of that serious air as he thought on what Wade had said. "So you can't find him?"

"No sir… he was supposed to meet up with us earlier today, but he never showed. We walked to your home and he wasn't there either."

"Might have gone to his mother… she was talking about having a back-up of animals to care for… walking, feeding, boarding, all that nonmedical stuff. Skinny's always been a good kid, the exact kind to go help out them who needs it. I'd check there if I were you."

"We got someone going there already. In case he's not there either, can you take a message for him? For when you see him tonight?"

"Sure thing. Shoot."

"Tell him we're planning to meet up tomorrow at Castle Rock. Same time as today's."

"Castle Rock?" Jackson asked. "Like, the city? Long walk for you boys."

"He'll know what it means," Wade assured the old man.

"Message received, and will be forwarded on." Jackson then reached into his pocket and tossed a pack of gum towards Wade, who caught it in the air.

"We received an extra box of these… they're not in inventory. Help yourself. Just don't go gumming up our sidewalks now," Jackson said.

"Yes, sir, and thank you, sir," Wade said. "Tell the missus I said hey!"

* * *

The veterinarian's office was set in a row of storefronts just between a laundromat and real estate office. As Shaun pushed his way in through the front door, six sets of eyes turned to regard him. Three sets were human, belonging to middle-aged patrons Shaun didn't recognize. Two sets were canine, belonging to dogs on leashes sitting on the waiting room floor—one a golden retriever, the other some sort of poodle mix. The last set of eyes belonged to an iguana—or, was it a bearded dragon?—that was perched on a woman's shoulder. It seemed to be smiling, as much as reptile lips could be said to smile, and its demeanor was clam. As it examined Shaun, its tongue darted out to wipe at its eye. Adorable yet creepy thing, Shaun thought.

Remembering the reason for his visit, Shaun walked over to the reception window and pressed a button on the counter, which triggered a buzzer somewhere beyond the window. The glass slid back, revealing a frowning, plump woman with a bored expression. Her glasses she wore were square and all-too-small for her face, giving the impression that they might shoot off towards Shaun at any moment. He mentally resisted the urge to duck away.

"Picking up?" she asked, noting Shaun's lack of pet. "Because if so, you gotta have an adult to do pick up."

"Oh, no, ma'am," he said, "I don't have a pet."

The woman stared at him blankly, letting an uncomfortable silence follow his words. "I can see that," she finally said.

"I, uh, I'm just here to see Mi—Dr. Trent. Is Dr. Trent in today?"

"She expecting you?" The receptionist asked.

"Well, no, not exactly… I'm a friend of her son."

At the mentioning of Skinny, the receptionist lit up. "Such a good kid, that Jackson. He's got a way with the animals that really only people in the business have got. You know that?" As she spoke, the door near the reception window buzzed and clicked open. "I guess you can come on in; go on to room 4. I'll send Michelle in when she's got a second, but it might take a bit."

"That's fine, and thank you ma'am," Shaun said, opening the door that separated the waiting room from the office beyond. He walked into the main corridor, green doors marking off various offices to either side. He found the one labeled with a large number 4 and made his way in, taking a seat. In contrast to his mental picture of cold metal scales and white ceilings and walls, the place was surprisingly warm. It wasn't a matter of temperature, but something about the decor was oddly inviting. The walls featured posters and brochures with bright inks and an almost storybook illustrative quality about them. SO… MY DOG HAS RINGWORMS. NOW WHAT? asked a poster across the room, complete with a photo of an attractive family man scratching at his chin and looking at his sleeping dog. RABIES - KNOW YOUR SIGNS! said another, featuring a diagram of a squirrel with various lines and indicators pointing at symptoms. "To spay, or not to spay," wondered a brochure at Shaun's right, its front showing a man holding a cat like Hamlet hoisting the skull of his fallen friend. The reference was lost on Shaun.

Shaun picked up the brochure and began to leaf through it. He was halfway through a paragraph about how spaying could improve his pet's lifespan ("and reduce the risk of cancer, at that!" the brochure extolled) when the door swung open.

"Ah, Shaun, it's so good to see you!" Michelle Trent was a woman of short stature but grand presence, possessing that ability to fill up a room the moment she entered it. Her black hair was cut neatly to shoulder length, and her veterinarian's scrubs were simultaneously professional and fashionable. She was a woman who had never been anything but a vet, and yet, she held the commanding impression (and intensity) of a big city mayor, of someone to look to for instruction or guidance. The boys collectively couldn't decide if they loved her or were scared of her… it seemed the feelings swung back and forth like a pendulum.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

Seeing the infectuous smile on her face and the genuinely warm demeanor, today was a love day, Shaun decided. "It's good to see you, too, ma'am!" She pulled him in for a hug.

"You haven't been over for dinner in a while," she chided gently. "Every time we're cooking that pasta dish you loved, I tell Skinny he should invite you over."

"If it's that meatball one you mean, just give me the date and time and I'm there," he replied.

"I definitely will. So what can I do for you today? Thinking of adopting?"

"Oh, no, it's nothing like that. We were just looking for Skinny, actually. He was supposed to meet us today but he never showed, and then we went to your house but he wasn't there either."

"Oh, really?" Michelle asked, frowning. In her head, she immediately heard that maternal voice of worry, but she quickly silenced its panic. I saw him last night before I turned in for bed, early as it was. Was he looking sick? No, he seemed fine. Did he mention going anywhere? Nothing I can remember. As she ran through that mental checklist of possibilities, she realized the boy's unspoken question. "Well, he's not here. You speak to his father yet? He wakes up and leaves for work later than I do… would've spoken to him this morning. Do you want me to call?"

"No need! One of our group is going by the store to ask," Shaun said. "If you see him—Skinny, that is—can you tell him we were looking to meet up tomorrow same place same time as today?"

"Yes sir, young sir," she said.

As Shaun left the vet's office, Michelle walked over to her desk phone and dialed the number of her husband's store from memory. After a few moments' ringing, his familiar, gravely voice spoke from the other end. "Perpetumart, how can I help you?"

"Hey, hon. You see Junior this morning?"

"Oh, hey, Michelle. Boy slept clean through breakfast… one of his friends stopped by just earlier. Same by you?"

"Yuh-huh. What'd you tell him?"

"Well, I remember yesterday how you were mentioning having lots of work stacked up… I guessed maybe Junior woke up late and then went out to help you. By your call, I'm guessing he didn't…"

"No. He didn't. So, neither of us saw him since yesterday night?"

There was a pause on Jackson's end, and Michelle knew her husband well enough to know he was scratching at his face in that pensive way of his that he always fell back to when considering tough questions. "No, I guess not. How worried are we?"

Michelle pursed her lips. "Not particularly, yet. I've got no clients for a short lunch break… I'll call around his friends' famlies and see if he's been seen at all. I'll call the Campbells last."

Both immediately understood that last remark. The mother of the Campbell family, Nora, was a police officer, so checking in with her was as good as getting the department involved. Neither wanted to confront that just yet. At the moment, Skinny was merely misplaced. Calling the police and getting their involvement? That was the moment he was actually missing, and neither wanted to even permit that thought to enter their mind.

"If it comes to that, I'd rather go visit the station… what with it being just up the road from me," Jackson volunteered, breaking the uncomfortable silence where both of their thoughts had begun to wander.

"I'll keep in touch," Michelle said. "Stay near the phone."

"Will do. Love you," Jackson said.

"Love you too," Michelle replied, hanging up the receiver.

* * *

With the removal of 'hanging out with friends' from his day's plans, Ronnie took the opportunity to tend to something he had long been postponing. Not intentionally, he thought, I've just been so busy. He knocked on the cherry-red door in front of him and waited. After a moment, he repeated his knock, this time with more force. Gotta be loud, he remembered. The louder volley of knocks set off a cascade of something mid-way between a bark and a howl. Phoebe, the small, golden poodle, was such an ancient thing that every day it continued living seemed an act of defiance towards God. She was thin and her coat was even thinner, seeming to flee from splotchy patches along her side that marked old scars. Her gait was crooked, as she favored her front left paw that was wounded in a bout with a car (an injury she never quite fully recovered from). She was missing a few teeth, and if she could still wag her tail she chose to keep that a secret. Michelle Trent, the veterinarian, often whispered to the DeLange family that they should consider euthanasia, and sooner rather than later. Martha DeLange was not interested.

Martha's hearing was worse than that of Phoebe, so the trick to getting her to open the door was to get Phoebe's attention first. The dog, which always sat on her lap or between her feet when the lap was otherwise inaccessible, would set to barking and run towards the door, which inevitably would bring Martha in tow just behind. Indeed, as Phoebe arrived to the door Ronnie waited at, barking and wailing, it was only a moment later that the lock began to turn and the door swung open. "Ron! What a surprise to see you!" Martha beamed.

"Hey, grandma," Ronnie said, stepping in for a hug. "Good to see you, too."

The two sat down in Martha's parlor, each holding a porcelain teacup. Martha set a steaming teapot on the table between them and placed a bag of Earl Grey in each cup. She then began to pour the water with a surprisingly steady hand. If Phoebe was something ancient and crumbling, Martha was like an oak in drought: she was thin, but the thinness didn't engender weakness. Instead, it exposed the hearty bark beneath the layers of excess that the years accumulated, leaving behind only strong, gnarled wood on its still-sturdy trunk. She was small, but she was not frail. As she sat back, teacup in hand, Phoebe leapt up into her lap and set her head down contentedly.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Martha asked, sipping at her tea. Ronnie took a sip as well, but found it still much too hot.

"No reason at all," Ronnie said. "Just to visit."

"Well, aren't I lucky, then," Martha said, smiling. "I haven't had a visitor in quite some time. Your mother doesn't visit very often, truth be told… now, I know, I know, she's a busy woman. But it's nice to be remembered, is all."

Ronnie let his eyes trace the walls of the parlor, which featured paintings he remembered well from childhood and a few new ones that he didn't. Photographs cluttered on the shelves, black-and-white moments frozen in time. Martha followed his gaze.

"That one, there, was Mickey. Your…" she trailed off, thinking. "Second cousin, twice-removed. A real swimming sensation in his heyday. Lived up near New York."

"Did I ever meet him?"

"Died of a stroke before you were born… would that he could've met you. I think you two would've gotten along splendidly." She smiled wistfuly, in that moment residing within a memory instead of the present. Ronnie found something about the moment surprisngly touching. In fact, he remembered looking at his grandmother only just earlier this summer and seeing someone needy, someone bitter at her own loneliness. She kept herself locked away in her home with her old photographs like a keeper living in a wax museum, choosing the moments frozen in time instead of the bustle of the world beyond… or, at least, that was what he had previously thought about the older woman. Now, he couldn't help but wonder how many stories is she the only one left to carry? How many people did she know, people with lives full of tragedy and triumph, dreams and failings, and what is it like to see all those books close, and know that her final pages are just beyond the horizon?

"You've got his eyes," she said, turning from the photo to him. She then frowned. "I don't remember your eyes being quite so bright."

Ronnie momentarily panicked, realizing he was still wearing the ring, which indeed changed his eye color to a brighter color near grey. "They lightened recently," Ronnie replied, trying his best to sound nonchalant.

"You don't say," Martha marveled, holding his gaze. "Well, I think that's a remarkable color they've got now. Just make sure you see an eye doctor, because changing color like that isn't normal," she said. She then turned back to the photos, much to Ronnie's relief.

"Here: sit tight, enjoy your tea. I got something to show you." Martha set Phoebe on the chair as she stood up and walked off to a closet beneath the stairs. In it, she found the plastic container she'd sought and brought it back to the table. She set it down and began to unpack its contents: photo albums, loose papers, portraits, and a few framed documents.

"Look at this one," she said, handing Ronnie a small black-and-white photograph. In it, a woman smiled a wide, beaming grin against a formal portrait backdrop. The focus was soft, but the subject, unmistakeable. Ronnie recognized the eyes immediately. "How old were you in this one?"

"Twenty-six," Martha replied. "Which, I still am, mind you. Just twenty-six with six decades of experience." She handed another photo to Ronnie, this one featuring two toddlers in semi-formal dress. The older rested an arm on the younger's shoulder in a casual embrace, both smiling but looking in opposite directions away from the camera.

"Do you know who those are?" she asked.

Ronnie shook his head.

"Your mother and your uncle," she replied, taking the photograph back to examine it. "Such beautiful children, they were. Sometimes I wish it could go back to… this," she added wistfully. "What I wouldn't give for that."

As she continued digging through the box of photographs for personal treasures, Ronnie lifted out a dusty photo album and began flipping through its creaking pages. Each new page introduced a new set of photographs, each one featuring people he didn't recognize in places he didn't know. Maybe it was the ring giving him some new perspective, but there was inherently something fascinating about these photos. He saw one, a black-and-white picture of a man with an expansive, larger-than-life pose, as he held a rifle high above his shoulder. He could see personality and impression baked into that pose, as though everyone who knew the guy would say oh, him? He's a character, a real card. A wisecracking asshole, but one with the walk to back up the talk. All the nuance that made him up, all the arrogance that pose bespoke… he was dead now, and reduced to almost nothing more than a picture in a dusty, old box.

As Ronnie advanced the pages forwards, he watched that arrogant young man turn into a proud older patriarch, hunting photos giving way to pictures of him at the center of growing families. One featured him with a child to his side, one with a clear visual similarity… his son? Another featured him with a strange figure in a wheelchair, one with a scarred face that the out-of-focus photograph didn't render in much clear detail. A third yet featured him with a woman, presumably his wife, at the head of some large table, a young man seated to his side that resembled the child in previous photographs. A life laid out in the span of mere pages… would Ronnie's own life be compressed to so little when he passed?

"That one, there, that's Bernard," Martha said. "Or was it Ben? He's your grandfather's family, so he'd have been the one to ask… that to his right was his wife, Rita, and his son… what was his name, now?"

Ronnie removed the photo from its plastic sleeve and turned it over, reading the labeling on the back. "Ben + Rita at Horace's 24th birthday," he read from the label written in black marker.

"Yes, that was it. Still alive, too, as far as I know… I wonder what he's up to now?"