Read Online In Search of Sam by Kristin Butcher - Free Book Online

is grey. The rock embankments, the grass, the distant hills — everything. It’s as if the world is coated with a dull film and Mother Nature needs to hose it away to make everything fresh and new.
    Along the highway are point of interest signs indicating station stops along the old Kettle Valley Rail Line. These are names of characters from Shakespearean plays. Apparently one of the engineers had a passion for the Bard. According to the map, the turnoff for Farrow is just south of the marker for Juliet, so as soon as I pass it — even though I trust Gloria to tell me where to turn — I slow down and keep my eyes peeled for the exit.
    â€œKeep left,” Gloria directs me and then adds, “In 450 metres, turn left.”
    â€œGotcha,” I say, spotting the left turn lane ahead. I check my rear-view mirror, put on my turn signal, and change lanes.
    As I wait for the oncoming traffic to go by, I squint at the sign tacked to a post at the entrance to the road — a barn board someone has written on. The white paint is so cracked and faded, I can barely make out the letters. I’m pretty sure they spell “Farrow,” but maybe that’s because it’s what I expect to be there.
    The article on the Internet said the road was gravel. It is — in some places anyway. In other parts the gravel is long gone, and what passes for a road is a collection of potholes and ruts that bounce me past an orchard of gnarled old fruit trees, a dilapidated barn that’s leaning so much I could blow it over and a sign warning visitors not to drink the water.
    Gloria seems to be weathering the bumpy ride better than I am because her voice is as steady and cheerful as ever when she announces, “In 100 metres, destination on right.” Then a few seconds later, “Destination on right.”
    I slow to a crawl and peer out the passenger window. There’s another sign, just as ancient as the one at the highway, but at least I can read this one. Welcome to Farrow . I glance around. Okay, I’ll bite. Where?
    I move on, rolling slowly over the rutted road like a rowboat in a stormy sea. Straight ahead is a crossroad, and it’s paved. Main Street, according to the signpost. I glance both ways. There’s not a car in sight. Buildings line the sides of the road, but they’re in pretty rough shape. Most are boarded up, and the ones that aren’t look like they should be. The place is totally deserted. Or is it? Half a block away, I see a dog. It pads from my side of the road to the other and scratches at the door of a white storefront. Almost immediately, the door opens and an elderly man shuffles out. He pats the dog and the two make their way to a patch of sun farther down the sidewalk. The man lowers himself into a chair and starts to rock. The dog curls up beside him.
    I ease my car onto Main Street, cover the half block, and park. As I step onto the street, I can feel the man watching me. When I cross the road, the dog lifts its head.
    I smile. “Good morning.”
    The man nods but says nothing. The dog starts to get up, but when the man strokes its back, it grumbles and settles down again.
    The man shades his eyes and squints at me. “Lose your way?” he says. “We don’t get many visitors here in Farrow. Do we, Ralphie?”
    The dog’s tail thumps the sidewalk.
    â€œActually, I’m looking for someone,” I tell him.
    â€œYou don’t say. And who might that be? I know most everybody hereabouts. Down to Brookmere too.” He gestures to an overturned milk crate. “Set yourself down and tell me who you’re lookin’ for. Is it the Moyers? They get the most company. Mind you, none of ’em stays long. But then nobody does. Farrow’s not exactly New York City, if you know what I mean.” He grins, and a gold tooth glints in the sunlight. “It used to be a sight more lively back in the old days, but when the mine