Mr. Holm pulled out a flat metal ammunition box wrapped in duct tape, its edges rusted. “It was clipped under the seat with that bungee cord,” he said. “Your husband’s name is scratched on the lid.” My hands shook as I took it. Inside lay a stack of envelopes, each marked with a year, and on top a note: “For Travis, to open on the day he can’t bear to look at this boat.” My breath caught.

Behind me, tires crunched on gravel. Travis’s pickup stopped at the end of the dock, and he climbed out, eyes red, unshaven. “Mom,” he said hoarsely, “Walt called me. He told me where you went.” He stared at the box in my arms, and the color left his face. “Dad used to hide things in that boat,” he whispered. “I forgot until last night.”