CHAPTER NINETEEN
TRISTAN
I’m ten and at a campground. Dad is getting the barbecue ready—charcoal bag open, lighter fluid in hand—and he’s already told me twice that I can wander but not too far.
The place is packed. Every site is full of adults drinking beer, laughing too loudly, and talking about sports I don’t care about.
There aren’t any kids my age, just a few teenagers who look like they’d rather be anywhere else.
I’m kicking at pine needles, trying to decide whether boredom or hunger will get me first, when I feel someone watching me.
She’s sitting at a picnic table a few sites over, a woman about the same age as Dad with dark hair pulled back in a loose braid.
She doesn’t look away when I notice her.
If anything, her eyes sharpen, like she’s been waiting for me to look back.
Then she lifts her hand and motions me over with two fingers.
I hesitate—Dad would probably tell me not to bother strangers—but she doesn’t look dangerous. Just curious. And honestly, I’m curious too.
When I get close, she smiles like she already knows me.
“Out exploring?” she asks.
I shrug. “Nothing to do.”
“That’s usually when the interesting things happen.” Her voice is warm, a little scratchy, like she’s been talking all day. “What’s your name?”
“Tristan.”
“Well, Tristan, I’m Mara.” She gestures to the table. “You can sit, if you want. Let’s be bored together.”
I climb onto the bench, and that’s when I notice the cups—three of them—turned upside down on small saucers. Their rims are stained with something dark, almost muddy.
“What’re you doing?” I ask.
Mara’s smile widens, pleased by the question. “Reading fortunes.”
I blink. “Like…magic?”
“Not quite.” She taps one of the overturned cups.
“You drink a certain tea, then turn the cup over and let it dry. The leaves settle into shapes. Symbols. Stories.” She nods toward a group of women sitting in lawn chairs nearby, chatting and glancing over every so often. “Some of them are waiting for theirs.”
I look at the cups again, fascinated despite myself. “Can I try?”
She studies me for a moment, as if weighing something invisible. Then she reaches for a clean cup. “If you want to.”
She pours a small amount of tea from a thermos. The steam smells earthy, like wet leaves after rain. I take a sip and nearly gag; it’s bitter and green and tastes like something I wasn’t supposed to put in my mouth. I hope Dad’s not watching. He really wouldn’t like this.
Mara laughs softly. “It grows on you.”
I doubt it, but I finish the cup because she’s watching, and because I want to see what happens next.
She takes the empty cup from my hands, flips it upside down onto the saucer, and sets it aside. “Now we wait.”
The waiting feels longer than it probably is. The campground noise fades into a low hum—clinking bottles, someone yelling about a fishing trip, the sizzle of Dad testing the grill. The air smells like smoke and sunscreen.
Finally, Mara lifts the cup.
Her expression changes instantly. She was playful a moment ago, but now she’s…intrigued. Like she’s reading a language she hasn’t seen in years.
“Well,” she murmurs, “that’s unusual.”
My stomach flips. “What?”
She traces a fingertip along the inside of the cup. “These symbols…I’ve never seen them all together. Not in one reading.”
I don’t know what that means, but it sounds important. Was I going to die? “Is that bad?”
“No.” She shakes her head slowly. “Just rare.” Then she looks at me, really looks, like she’s trying to make sense of me. “You’ve done this before.”
I frown, voice resolute. “No, I haven’t. I would know if I had that tea.”
She laughs lightly. “Not this reading.”
“What then?”
“This journey.” Her voice is soft, almost questioning. “But the destination…it’s never certain.”
I don’t understand, but something about the way she says it makes the hairs on my arms stand up. Like she’s talking about something bigger than tea leaves. Bigger than camping trips and barbecues with Dad.
Before I can ask anything else, Dad’s voice cuts through the air.
“Tristan! Dinner!”
I turn toward him—he’s waving a spatula like a flag—and when I look back at Mara, she’s already setting the cup aside, her expression unreadable.
“Go on,” she says gently. “Your father’s waiting.”
I slide off the bench, suddenly aware of how strange the moment feels, like I stepped into someone else’s story for a minute. As I walk back toward Dad, I glance over my shoulder.
Mara is still watching me.
But this time, she looks like she knows something I don’t.
Her fitful dream woke me from mine. I opened my eyes and watched her in the darkness. Her chest moved rapidly as she tossed her head back and forth. I was tempted to wake her, but sometimes Daisy said things.
Tiny fragments from the life she left behind.
Tonight, she whispered, “Don’t leave me.”
And then she added, to whoever was on the other side, “I’ll be good.”
I checked the lock again. Then I lay awake and listened to her breathe.