After I crossed the tracks, I came upon a cemetery large enough to need three entrances. A block of large, well-kept houses bordered the cemetery, and I followed the sidewalk until I came across a man digging a grave, using a small, rubber-tracked excavator with a backfill blade on the front. I stopped to watch as he scooped out the dirt and deposited it into a bucket attached to the back of the machine. The gravedigger gave me a wave, and I waved back. There was something surreal about it all, and it made me think of the hours I’d spent in the trunk of the kidnappers’ car. There had been a few moments when I thought … Never mind what you thought, my inner voice told me. I turned and followed the road north.

The road ended where the cemetery ended, and I went east. There were more homes, some of them quite ambitious, a small park with playground equipment, and a high school surrounded by a football field, tennis courts, a baseball diamond, and a parking lot. The school building couldn’t have been more than a dozen years old. As near as I could tell, it was closed for the summer, and I wondered, if you were a teacher in Libbie, South Dakota, what did you do when school was out? Probably what all teachers do, I told myself, although that still didn’t answer my question.

I kept moving east until I found a second cemetery. This one was considerably smaller than the first, yet its monuments seemed bigger and grander. There was a black iron fence surrounding it. The entrance was closed but not locked. The name Boucher Gardens was written in metal above it. A gated community, I thought. Out loud I said, “I bet people are just dying to get in here.” I laughed at the joke. Sometimes I crack myself up.

I went south, skirting the eastern edge of Libbie, recrossing the railroad tracks. The houses were smaller now, and less impressive. There was a retirement home that seemed a hundred years older than the high school. Next to that was a lot where a man in a small shack decorated with flags and streamers sold mobile homes, prefabs, and RVs built for people who wanted to be someplace but weren’t exactly sure where. Farther along I found Libbie’s sewage treatment plant.

“Well, now I know which is the wrong side of the tracks,” I said.

I went west again, moving past a small, relatively new industrial complex that seemed to be bustling with energy. There were plenty of vehicles driving in and out of parking lots, plenty of people walking in and out of doorways, going about their business. No one paid any attention to me. Why would they?

A coffeehouse named Supreme Bean was located on the corner, and I went inside. Along with coffee it sold assorted bakery goods, sandwiches, and soup, but I settled for a sixteen-ounce hazelnut, no cream, no sugar. While I waited, I noticed a high school boy sitting at a small table. A high school girl sat across from him. She was wearing the uniform of a waitress but didn’t work there. If she wasn’t the Libbie High School homecoming queen, it could not have been for lack of effort. What is it with this town and its women? I wondered. She had to frown before I recognized her—Miller’s daughter, Saranne, the girl he slapped at the Libbie cop shop. She didn’t notice me, probably because she only had eyes for the boy. She twisted her long red-brown hair and fluttered the lids of her blue-green eyes, only the boy didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy talking about himself. I felt like slapping him upside the head and shouting, “The girl is interested in you, dummy. Pay attention to her.” Instead, I snapped a lid over my drink and stepped outside. After all, I had learned the hard way what it took to impress women; why not him?

I was nearly to the street when I heard a voice calling after me, “Hey, hey.” I stopped and turned. Saranne moved to within a few yards of me and no closer. Her eyes were wide and thoughtful and a little sad; she shielded them from the rising sun. Her smile was as fragile as a china cup.

“You’re McKenzie,” she said. “The real one.”

“Yes.”

“The one I saw at the jail.”

“That’s right.”

“You’re here to find Rush, aren’t you, like they want.”

“I’m going to give it a try.”

“Why? What good will it do? Do you think it’ll change anything?”

“I don’t know.”

“People have to live with their mistakes.”

“Only the ones they can’t fix.”

She gave it a moment before answering. “Only an adult would say that.” When she said adult, she meant old.

“Sometimes you have to be an adult before you figure it out,” I said.

She gave that a moment, too.

“Whatever,” she said.

I watched as she spun about and walked back into the coffeehouse.

Off in the distance, I could see the shining towers of the grain elevator—they had never been entirely out of sight—and I followed the road until I reached them. Once on First Street again, I hung a right and moved toward the hotel. When I reached the front entrance, I glanced at my watch. I had walked the entire perimeter of Libbie. It had taken me just over two hours. I didn’t think it was possible to walk around the Mall of America in that short a time.

Tracie Blake was not happy. She was standing in the lobby of the Pioneer when I arrived, and she started barking before I was halfway through the door.

“McKenzie,” Tracie said. “Where have you been?”

Sharren Nuffer was behind the reception desk. She seemed more concerned than angry.

“We didn’t know where you were,” she said. “You left without telling anyone.”

“Ladies,” I said.

“Well?” Tracie said. “Where were you?”

“I was taking a walk around town.”