There were pictures of men and women in the woods and around campfires and walking along a dirt road and by the creek. They obviously were taken around here. But I couldn't find any pictures of the town itself.

I ended up asking Iris about it.

"I guess you're right," she said.

She didn't seem either surprised or curious.

"Who are all these people?"

"Guests."

They all looked different, from their ages to the color of their skin. It seemed like everybody came to the Crag's Inn for some reason.

"How do all these people know about this place? I mean-do you do a lot of advertising?"

Iris only smiled.

A little later I asked her why I was organizing these pictures. I could understand showing a montage of guests who had stayed with you, but none of these pictures had labels. They were all nameless strangers-some smiling, some creepy looking, some looking stoic and others looking busy.

"When you have a place as special as this one, it's important to document it for future generations."

I didn't want to insult her with the next question going through my mind. But Iris seemed to pick up on my expression and answered it anyway.

"There are many places in this world that are unique, Chris. That have a truly unusual history. Do you believe that?"

"Sure."

I just didn't believe that this particular place was that unique or unusual.

"Sometimes it's not what's on the outside. It doesn't have to be spectacular or impressive or ostentatious in order to be remarkable. Sometimes, the smallest of things can be absolutely exceptional. Just this morning I was visited by a swarm of hummingbirds. They surrounded me on the deck outside. It could not have been a more glorious way to wake up and see God's morning glory."

I could understand that, but I still couldn't understand these pictures.

But I still did my job and did it as well as I could.

"Do you want any coffee?" Iris asks me today.

She's never offered me coffee before, so I say sure, why not. I don't really like coffee, but I'm learning to try new things. Even if I don't necessarily want to.

"I needed to make some extra for our guests. Did you see them?"

"Yeah, outside. Talking at the side of the inn."

"Good," Iris says, disappearing and then bringing me a cup. "Would you like anything in it?"

"No. I'm not much of a coffee drinker. I'm flexible."

"You're making good progress," she tells me.

Drinking coffee is good progress?

"So are you ready for something different today?"

"Yeah."

She smiles and sits and urges me to do the same.

There is a formality around Iris that's grown to be not only interesting but kinda admirable. Most people in this world are rude and loud and obnoxious. Okay, not most people, but a lot of people. People you see on reality shows and in the news. People who seem angry and irritated at life when they wake up. Iris is reserved and well-spoken and always seems so ... so dignified.

Maybe she's royalty from England hiding out in our creepy neck of the woods.

"How good is your composition?"

I stare at Iris and shake my head. "My what?"

"Your writing. Are you a good writer?"

"Not really. Average probably."

"Then average will do. Go on, sip your coffee; you'll need the extra caffeine."

She hands me an old book that I realize is a journal.

"I'd like you to begin a project that might take some time. But you've earned my trust, and you've shown that you're ready. I've had you do most of the labor that I need done at the moment. But this is the most important thing I could ever ask you to do."

I open the journal and see cursive handwriting in faded black ink. I try to read a little of it, but can't.

"Every innkeeper has had a journal and passes it down to the next person. The history of this inn is inside these pages."

"It's hard to read."

"Yes."

She leaves for a moment. I sip my coffee and wait. She comes back with a laptop.

"This is probably a little more to your liking."

It's a MacBook, and by the looks of it, a brand-new MacBook.

"I'm giving this to you, Chris. You will need this as you work on this project."

I hold the computer in my hand and probably have my mouth halfway open in shock.

Couple hundred bucks a day is one thing, but a MacBook ...

"For now, it will stay here while you work on this project," Iris says. "But you will be able to keep it when you finish."

"As payment for-"

"No," she interrupts. "In addition to your wages."

"This is, uh, quite a lot."

"There're no strings attached. It will be yours. But not for some time. Because this is a rather large project. And it's ultimately why I wanted you to come here and work."

The way she says you makes it seem like she invited me to come here in the first place. Mom was the one who pushed for me to be here. And that seemed random.

"They say that you can do things like load photos on a computer like that. Is that true?"

I nod, then think of the gazillion photos I've helped archive. I must have turned white, because Iris laughs.

"No, that's not what I'm thinking. Not those photos."

"Okay." I try to suppress a huge sigh of relief.

"The main thing I want you to do is to write a report. You can do that, right?"

"Yeah, I think."

"I'd like for you to write a history of this place, a kind that is easy to read and would be informative for newcomers. For people like yourself who don't know about this place and its history and can't scan messy journals to discover the truth."

"Where will I get the information?"

"There's far too much information. And that's not counting the journals. I will show you. You will work in a room that I have ready for you."

I nod again.

"I promise there will be other things to do-ways to get exercise and get away from the research and writing. But I believe that you'll find it interesting. I hope you do, at least."

"Okay."

"Are you sure?" she asks.

"Sure about what?"

"Sure about this endeavor?"

I nod.

I'm not sure about anything, not since having moved to Solitary. But it's work and I can earn a MacBook, so why not? It can't be that hard or boring, right?

As I say good night to Iris, my headache getting worse as I move, she asks how the project went today.

"I didn't get anything written. Not yet."

"That's okay. There's a lot to make sense of."

"Only about a hundred folders with scraps and pieces of stuff."

I want to say it's worse than the photo project she gave me.

"There is no deadline, Chris. Take your time."

"Sure."

"And one other thing."

I stand at the doorway as she stares intently at me.

"Take care of yourself. Please."

She says this as if she knows.

As if she's aware. Of everything.

64. Afraid of the Dark I can hear rain falling through the speakers in my room and on the trees outside, and I find I'm having a hard time seeing the difference. I'm waiting, killing time, worrying, listening to The Cure's Disintegration, worrying a little more. It's Sunday morning and Mom is gone to work and I'm home alone without a car or a life, but I do have a plan. Or I have Poe's plan. Now I'm waiting for a good time to leave the house and meet her downtown.

It appears I'll be riding my bike in a downpour.

The plan is to sneak and spy while the pastor speaks and lies. Maybe I should write song lyrics.

A crack of thunder gently shakes the house.

Midnight sits on the bed beside me, oblivious to the sound and the shaking. I remember Brady's dog back home and how it would go berserk at the faintest hint of thunder. Sometimes it's better not knowing the things we're supposed to be afraid of.

Maybe there are families that wake up and have breakfast together and watch television while they get ready for church. They go out and see their friends at New Beginnings and listen to Pastor Marsh preach some inspiring sermon. Or maybe they don't listen to all of it because they have other things on their minds, like Sunday dinner and starting work on Monday and the rest of the week and the rest of their life. They don't notice how odd the pastor's words seem, and they forget how odd the whole town around them happens to be.

Some people do this.

Others get ready to break into the pastor's house.

What I'll find, I have no idea.

The clouds appear full and angry as I finally venture outside with a cap and jacket to keep me remotely dry.

I have everything I need.

I think.

"I've been waiting for half an hour."

Obviously she doesn't notice how wet I am, or doesn't care, as I sit down in the front seat of her car. The good thing is that the rain coats the windows and keeps us hidden from any outsider's view.

"I was hoping for the rain to die down."

Poe is in black jeans and a black T-shirt, appropriate for the day. The only piece of clothing that's not black is her denim jacket.

"When are you going to get a license?" she asks as she pulls away from the parking spot on the far edge of the street where she told me we'd meet.