She took her time walking to the house. The bright blue sky was streaked with mare’s-tail clouds. Leaves on the trees and bushes were still that electric green of early spring. Of course it would be the same in every neighborhood throughout the city, even Manhattan, but she rarely slowed down enough to notice.

In return for Evie’s agreeing to deal with the house and watch over their mother in the hospital, Ginger said she’d sort out the health insurance. Fortunately their mother was still covered as a firefighter’s widow. Fortunately, too, their father had had the prescience—though it was no secret that firefighters died young—to purchase mortgage life insurance. When he died, their mother owned the house outright.

Evie shifted her backpack to her other shoulder. She’d brought a few changes of clothes and her toothbrush. The closer she got to her mother’s house, the slower she walked. It was its own world, this spit of land in a corner of the South Bronx with the East River on one side and the Long Island Sound on the other. Lanes that ran higgledy-piggledy were lined with long, narrow, shotgun houses built close together. Off any official planning grid, these lots for summer cottages had been divided early in the twentieth century, long before the Whitestone Bridge made it easy to get there. The most fortunate houses, like her mother’s, were lined up along Neck Road at the edge of one of the city’s only surviving marshes. Evie had no idea why Soundview Lagoons had been spared the indignity of landfill.

She passed the house where her friend Alicia had lived. She’d smoked her first cigarette behind its garage and almost started a fire in the dry grass. Made out with Joey Mendez on the glider on the back porch. Now the house was badly in need of a coat of paint; instead of curtains in the window of what had been her friend’s slope-ceilinged bedroom, there were torn shades. The house next to Alicia’s looked oddly palomino, white paint peeling off to reveal great patches of dark brown.

A little farther on, three blocks from her mother’s house, stood Sparkles Variety. Evie smiled to see it still there. The granite-block building was decades older than anything else nearby. Its sign had a few residual metallic spangles that caught the light. The store was open and apparently busy—half the angled parking spaces in front were filled. Around the side, where customers must have pulled up their cars to fill up even before Evie’s family had moved there, stood an old gas pump. Once painted bright red and yellow, it was now mostly rust. With its big round disk on top, it had always reminded Evie of an overgrown chess pawn, AWOL from its regiment.

The grouch who pretty much lived behind the cash register at Sparkles used to scold Evie and Ginger if they so much as breathed on a piece of candy they weren’t prepared to buy. He kept Seventeen and YM magazines in plastic pouches so they couldn’t be browsed, and Penthouse behind the counter wrapped in brown paper with only the title showing. Inside the pay phone he’d posted a time limit, and a sign on the front door warned customers against bringing any food or beverage into the store. He wouldn’t have stood for anything taped to the front window, never mind the welter of flyers plastered across it now. Evie stopped to scan them, resting her backpack at her feet.

Some of the notices were in English, others in Spanish. Yard sales. English lessons. A used book sale at the library. A “Preserve the Marsh” meeting at a nearby community center. A potluck supper at St. Andrews.

She peered into the store. She knew she was postponing the inevitable, but what the heck. Her mother’s house wasn’t going anywhere.

A bell—the same one from her youth?—tinkled overhead when Evie pushed through the doorway. The interior smelled the same, too. Sawdust and dried sweat. And there was still an actual pay phone just inside the front door. She scooped her finger into the change return slot and came back with a dime.

The enormous ice cream freezer where she and Ginger had discovered root-beer-flavored Popsicles was still there near the front. As Evie peered through the sliding glass top, she realized that she was starving. She’d left her apartment having had only coffee. Sitting right on top was a Ben & Jerry’s Peace Pop. Cherry Garcia. Her favorite. She carried the ice cream to the cash register. The rod over the counter was festooned with rolls of bright shiny lottery tickets. Her mother had long been a steady scratch ticket customer.

The clerk, a tall young man with sharp eyes and a beaky nose, pressed some keys on the familiar-looking massive silver-painted cash register and the cash drawer flew open with a ka-ching that took her right back. On a shelf behind the counter was a display of flashlights and batteries. Every house out here had a good supply—all it used to take was a stiff breeze for the power to go out, and then hours for it to get fixed. She remembered her mother had a bowl full of spent batteries, back in the day when it was illegal to throw them in the trash.

“You think rechargeable batteries save energy?” she asked the clerk.

He blinked at her, as if seeing her for the first time. “Only if you remember to unplug the charger when they’re cooked.”

She’d read that somewhere. “Stupid design. You’d think gadgets would come with a truly-off switch. Instead they sit around doing nothing but suck energy.”

“Wouldn’t you think rechargeables would be recyclable?” he said. “They’re not. So we carry regular batteries, the ones without mercury, made in the good old U.S. of A. All they do is leak potassium hydroxide into landfills.” The logo silkscreened on his sweatshirt over his heart, Evie noticed, showed a crab and a fish above wavy water lines. A slogan underneath read: ASK ME ABOUT SOUNDVIEW WATERSHED PRESERVATION.

“Soundview Watershed Preservation?” she said.

“Huh?”

“Your shirt. It says to ask.”

When he smiled, he was almost handsome. There was a cleft in his chin and at least two days’ worth of stubble on his face. From under the counter he pulled a brochure and offered it to her.

“Come to a meeting,” he said. “At the community center. Monday night.”

Evie reached for the brochure. On the front was a color photograph of the marsh. She turned it over. One of the photographs on the back was of a small group of people standing at the water’s edge. They all had binoculars around their necks. There, beside a tripod-mounted spotting scope, was the store clerk, the tallest person in the group.

“Sure,” Evie said. But she hoped she wouldn’t be here long enough to get involved in some local crusade.

The man leaned back and folded his arms. She felt her face flush as he took in her zippered fleece vest, Dolce & Gabbana jeans she’d picked up at Century 21, and Frye boots that she’d had for the last ten years, ever since her last semester at NYU.

“I know you,” he said. “Don’t I?”

Evie knew that was the oldest line in the book. Still, she squirmed under his gaze. Was there was something familiar about him?

“I got it,” he said. “You’re one of the Ferrante girls. I remember you from P.S. Sixty-eight. You”—he narrowed his eyes—“don’t you have a sister, too?”

“Ginger,” she said. Of course he’d remember Ginger. She was the pretty one.

“Right. You two used to come in here for ice cream and—”

“Candy.” Evie laughed. She and Ginger had regularly surrendered their allowances and paper-delivery money in exchange for, in Evie’s case, Pop Rocks, SweeTarts, and cherry-flavored Lik-m-aid. Ginger went for the M&Ms and peanut butter cups.

“Finn Ryan,” he said, offering her his hand.

She shook it. His fingertips felt calloused. Evie recalled that the curmudgeon who’d presided over the candy and magazines had been named Mr. Ryan. “Didn’t your dad own this store?”