Mr. Calloway lifted a battered green tackle box from beneath the seat, wrapped in a plastic bag and held by a bungee cord. “I found this on Wednesday while I was bailing water,” he said. “I have not opened it, because it is not mine.” Helen’s knees went weak, and she sat down on the dock. A strip of masking tape ran across the lid, and written on it in Gordon’s blocky handwriting was a single word: Kyle.

Her hands shook as she undid the latch. Inside lay a folded letter, a small silver compass, and a fishing license dated from the year Kyle was born. Mr. Calloway stepped quietly back onto the dock. “Read it here,” he said gently. “Then we can talk about Saturday.” Across the water, a loon called again, and Helen unfolded the page and began to read aloud.