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furnished with white wicker chairs, a swing and an intriguing cot suspended from chains. She helped him to the swing, and he leaned back, surveying the calm water. Then he took out the cigars they’d bought and lit one up. Almost instantly, he erupted with a coughing fit, waving his hand in front of his face.
    “George!” She took the burning cigar from him and stubbed it out. “Are you all right?”
    “I am now. There’s one regret I don’t have.” He shook his head, sipped some water. “Smoking used to be so fashionable, back when.”
    “I’m glad you weren’t a slave to fashion.”
    George picked up his journal and paged through it. “My list is long. Is that unrealistic?” he asked.
    “There aren’t any rules.”
    He nodded. “We’ve accomplished one already.”
    “You have?”
    He drew a firm line through item number seventeen and handed it to her with a flourish.
    She studied the entry for a few moments. “Visit the place where I first fell in love,” it read. She handed back the journal. “You did this?”
    “Today.”
    “The resort lodge, you mean?”
    He looked a bit bashful. “Before that.”
    She mentally retraced their journey. “I don’t under—Wait. George, do you mean…?”
    He nodded again. “The Sky River Bakery.” He sighed, stared down at the item for a few more moments with a distant light in his eyes.
    “Are you hungry, George? Would you like to go to dinner at the lodge?”
    “I’m a bit tired, actually. I’m happy just resting here awhile.”
    “Of course. I’ll get your meds.” Steroids and other palliative meds were keeping the symptoms at bay, but the effects were only temporary. The upside was, he stood a chance of enjoying a decent quality of life as opposed to endless days of chasing painful, time-consuming treatments that ultimately would fail.
    When she came across the Viagra, she tried not to react, but something must’ve shown on her face. George didn’t seem sheepish at all, just matter-of-fact. “In case I get lucky. Is that a foolish hope?”
    “As soon as you stop hoping to get lucky, it’s all over,” she said with a grin.
    He gifted her with a burst of laughter. “Something tells me we’re going to get along just fine.”
    She brought him a Hudson’s Bay blanket of brightly dyed wool, and a few pillows. Propped against the pillows, he scowled at a page in his journal. Across the top, he’d written Charles .
    “Your brother, right?” said Claire.
    George nodded. “He’s the main reason I’ve come here.”
    “I bet he’s going to be incredibly happy to see you, George.”
    “Of that, I’m not so certain.”
    “What do you mean, not certain?”
    “Charles and I haven’t spoken in fifty-five years.”

Four
    C laire woke up to silence. She wondered if she’d ever get used to the absence of honking horns and gnashing air brakes, the shouts and whistles of vendors and workmen. The void was filled with birdsong, the hum of insects and breezes ruffling the leaves and rippling across the water. The smells drifting in through the screened window—flowers and grass and the fresh scent of the lake—were utterly intoxicating.
    She went to the window of her small loft bedroom and felt the irresistible pull of the outside. She had an urge to be a part of it—and it was the perfect time for a morning run. Hastily dressed in nylon shorts and an athletic bra and T-shirt, ankle socks and her favorite runners, she tiptoed downstairs. She tucked her monitor receiver into a pocket and drank a big glass of water. Then she stepped outside and headed for the trail, choosing the five-mile route marked Lakeside Loop.
    In the city, she would be plugged into an iPod to cover up the babble of urban life. Here in the wilderness, she welcomed the sounds of nature and the feel of the freshair on her skin, and she started her morning jog with a smile on her face. And of course, she had the requisite shot of pepper spray clipped to her waistband, but that was