"But it was wrong."
"It was. And part of it was true too. I did lose contact. I should have tried harder. But I believed the whole thing was my fault because that was easier than wondering whether something else had happened. Guilt can make a story feel complete before you know all the facts."
Eli thought for a long time, his gaze fixed on the little window of the stove. "Mom says guilt lies."
Cole looked at him. "Does she?"
"She says it takes something real and tells you that's the only thing that's real. Like if you forget somebody's birthday, it tells you that means you're a bad person. But maybe you forgot because your brain was full of other stuff. It doesn't make forgetting okay. It just means you're more than one mistake."
Cole smiled slowly. "Your mom's pretty smart."
"She's really smart," Eli said with unshakable certainty. "She figured out almost everything by herself."
"She did."
"But now she doesn't have to do everything by herself. Dad's here. And Darla helps. And Voss. And you're not far away."
"That's right."
Eli stood and looked toward the hallway. "I think we're going to be okay. Not right away. But eventually."
"I think so too."
The boy approached Cole and rested his fingers against the compass patch one last time that evening. The gesture was brief and light. It had begun as a way to identify a stranger; now it was something closer to a greeting, a sign of recognition between two people who had made a difficult journey together.
"Still pointing home?" Eli asked.
Cole looked toward the hallway where Mara and Evan were speaking. "Still pointing home."
Eli wished him good night and went to his parents. Cole watched the small figure disappear, hearing the quiet scrape of boots on the wooden floor. For a while he sat with the fire, the two photographs against his ribs, and the unfamiliar feeling of being wanted somewhere without having to earn it through the next dramatic act.
Later Evan came into the room and sat in the chair across from him. He carried two mugs of coffee and placed one within Cole's reach. Neither spoke immediately. The stove ticked softly as logs settled behind the glass, and outside the tree line made a faint whispering sound in the wind.
"Eli told me he gave you the photograph," Evan said.
"Yeah."
"He's carried it everywhere for three years. Mara says he got upset once when she suggested putting it in a proper frame. He thought if it was framed he couldn't take it with him."
"He told me I needed it."
"Then he meant it." Evan watched the fire. "He's careful about giving things away. He knows what it feels like to lose something you wanted to keep."