Any visitor to Bent Fork would immediately notice the cats.

David and Grandad were sitting at an outdoor table of Mrs. Vargas’s Tea Shoppe. A tabby nudged David’s ankle. Nearby, a sleek grey and white creature mooched vittles from another patron. You couldn’t walk down Main Street without meeting a Bent Fork Feral. They scooted after mice between the legs of the pinball machines next door. If you ever rented one of Mr. Burke’s paddle boats, you might have found a cat waiting for you, curled beneath the paddles.

The cats belonged to everyone and to no one.

Once David and Sharon had disembarked the ferry, Sharon had asked a stranger for directions. David had heard the stranger tell her the bed and breakfast was on the next street parallel to Main Street. She could cut across the schoolyard if she wanted. She and David then parted ways. Sharon would be fine. It was hard to get lost in Bent Fork.

Nana had gone inside to check the mail. Grandad’s eyes rested on David’s or — more precisely — just past them. What was happening inside his head? David sipped his drink.

David reached below the table and stroked the tabby at his feet. His gaze wandered to behind the indoor counter. Tea paraphernalia rested on the shelves — teacups, teapots. Mrs. Vargas and Nana were engaged in conversation. (The Tea Shoppe was also the post office.)

A hand gripped David’s wrist. Startled, he looked to see Grandad’s hand tightening its hold on his forearm. Grandad leaned in toward David. His eyes fixed themselves upon the boy’s.

“Don’t drink the water,” he said. “They’ll try to make you, but don’t do it.”

“It’s tea, Grandad.”

Grandad blinked, loosened his grip, and resumed his gaze to just beyond David’s head.

Residents of Bent Fork would tell you that the community was named for the sharp turn the river took before emptying into the fjord. However, David knew this to be a story made up to impress visitors. Nana had told him years ago that Bent Fork is an English corruption of a local language, long forgotten. The community was named for its early settlers. David thought the geographic interpretation to be more interesting.

Bent Fork had two paved roads: Main Street and Broadway. Main Street ran along the northern bank of the fjord. Broadway cut it at a right angle, just beyond the beach. At their intersection hung Bent Fork’s only traffic light. David couldn’t remember the light ever working. Now he could see it, still dark, swaying in the breeze.

Broadway ran north for half a block before it turned to gravel. To find Nana and Grandad’s cottage, you followed the gravel road by foot about a half-mile into the wood. There, you would see Frog Lake and the cottage.

Frog Lake had no frogs. It was, however, the home to a subspecies of trout found nowhere else in the world. David wondered how the first Frog Lake Trout had ever arrived. He thought about the generations of trout that lived their whole lives in that lake, cut off from the greater trout community.

“You have mail.”

Nana stood next to David's chair. Even standing, she was barely taller than he was sitting. She held a manilla envelope in both hands. The envelope bulged in the centre. David received it from her. It had been addressed with a thick felt marker:

David Zman, Bent Fork

David turned the envelope over in his hands. The back was blank. The only other information was in the cancelled stamps on the front. David recognized neither the language nor the currency.

“Who would send me something here?” David carefully opened the envelope, taking care to preserve the postage stamps. They might be the only clue as to the package’s origins.

Inside was an object in bubble wrap. David removed the wrap to reveal a rectangular block of wood with rounded corners. David placed the object on the table, and peered inside the envelope. Nothing else was inside. He spread the bubble wrap flat on the table, then turned it over. Had he missed something?

David picked up the object with both hands and examined it from each side. The wood had been stained and shellacked. It was smooth to touch, but the wood grain showed through. David thought he could discern a seam running around the long end — a lid? From its weight, David guessed there was something inside.

It was a box.

“Am I supposed to open this?” he asked no one in particular.

The package must have arrived with the rest of the mail, aboard the ferry. Prior to that, it would have been on the bus. David wondered how far it had accompanied him on their mutual journey.

“You must be tired,” said Nana, not hearing him. “I’ve made up your room. You can have a rest and tell me all about your trip.”

Nana gestured toward a muddy pickup truck that she had parked off the street, near the Tea Shoppe. She told David to put his luggage in the back and to wait for them inside. David climbed onto the centre of the seat, behind the stick shift. The keys were in the ignition.

He turned and helped Grandad up through the passenger’s door. Nana folded Grandad’s walker and tossed it into the truck bed. Then she climbed into the driver’s seat. Nana noticed David struggling with Grandad’s seatbelt.

“Oh don’t bother with that,” she said. “We’re just going down the road.”

Nana pulled the vehicle onto the road, and navigated it toward the intersection. At the dead traffic light, they turned left, in the direction of the cottage.

David sat between them. In his hands, held the curious wooden vessel. He turned it over and over. He eyed it from all possible angles, and wondered what it contained.