Roger was seven when he died.

As I step out of the rusted station wagon, the unforgettable scents of Vancouver Island strike me — lilac, gravel, and salt.

Bonnie’s parents had said they would be back in five minutes.

I push the ocular lenses into my tear ducts until I hear a faint click.

Josh wants nothing to do with my idea of digging up half the back lawn.

Tendrils of purple vine, voices floating on temperate air—Findlay park, empty in the cold morning dew, was now brimming in the warm embrace of midday.

Siobhan already made two appearances in the parlour room to pick up the extension that morning.