It clicks now. I see Maria and Kenzi hang out together, and I think to myself—
Holy shit, what is the one way to a single mom’s heart?
Her son. Obviously.
If there’s anything I know anything about, it’s Hannsett Island. So it’s easy to walk Otto and Diego through the aquarium. And they’re cool kids—I remember what it was like at that age, a bundle of energy and excitement.
Otto, I think, is warming up to me. When we’re outside, hanging out by the boats, I show him and Diego how to tie a cleat knot with one of the loose lines hanging on the dock. Otto is a smart kid and gets it right on the first try.
“You’re a rock star, buddy. Up top.”
I hold up my palm. He squints at me.
“Not falling for that again.”
Okay. So maybe I still have an uphill battle to climb. I sit down beside him. “What’s in the backpack? Hit me with a juice box.”
He’s got a pink-and-purple backpack, and he pulls it into his lap, unzipping it. “I don’t have a juice box.”
“What do you have?”
“Mineral water.” He pulls the bottle out, holding it out to me.
“Mineral water? What are you, ninety?” I take the bottle and chuck it toward the trash can by the aquarium. It bounces off the rim and nearly hits a woman rolling a stroller.
“Fucking asshole!” she snaps at me.
I cover Otto’s ears. “Hey! There are kids here!”
She flips me off.
Whatever. I glance down at Otto. “Hey, you want some ice cream?”
“It’s winter.”
“Yeah. Best time for ice cream.” I walk over to where Kenzi, Maria, and Donovan are standing. They look deep in conversation. “Hey, the boys and I are going to get ice cream. Is that cool?”
Maria shrugs. “That’s fine with me.”
Kenzi lifts her eyebrows. “Ice cream? It’s freezing.”
“Never too cold for ice cream.”
Inside, I’m saying, Look at how cool I am with your kid. Wouldn’t we be a good pair?
She hesitates, but then she finally says, “Yeah…okay.”
I turn back to the boys. “Onward!” I say, pumping my fist in the air, and they get hyped.
Ahoy! is, amazingly, one of the tourist shops that stays open in the winter.
They’ve got all kinds of great winter flavors, too—peppermint bark, gingerbread cookie. I go with old faithful, butterscotch in a waffle cone, but Otto gets a kids’ scoop of gingerbread in a cup. Diego gets cookies and cream. The three of us go outside, and I clear the dusting of snow off one of the picnic benches so we can sit down without sticking to it.
Funny to think that, over a decade ago, I shared this bench with Kenzi. Now, I’m eating ice cream across from her son.
He’s a shy kid, and his eyes avoid me as he stabs at his cup.
“What do you do for fun?” I ask, trying to break the ice. I don’t know why, but I have this unconscionable need to get Kenzi’s kid to like me.
He shrugs.
“C’mon. I know you’ve got something you like to do. Do you play sports? Basketball?”
“I love basketball!” Diego says.
“I can’t play basketball,” Otto says. “My helmet gets in the way.”
“Right—how about drawing? Do you draw?”
“I can’t draw.”
I point my spoon at him. “I’m hearing a lot of can’ts from you. What’s that about?”
He shrugs again. Pokes at his ice cream.
“You can put a pencil on paper, right?”
“I guess.”
“Then you can draw. That’s all there is to it. Look—my dad used to tell me, the only thing that separates winners from losers is that winners never quit. You can’t let anything stop you from doing what you want to do.”
He stares at me for a long time. “Do you think so?”
I wag my spoon at him. “I know so. You have to write your own path, you know? No one can do that but you.”
He seems to think about that for a moment. There’s a change in his expression, like he’s really taking my words to heart. Then he puts his spoon and cup down. “I have to use the bathroom.”
I point to the shop. “Inside, door on the right.”
Otto gets up, swings his backpack over his shoulders, and then heads inside.
I won’t lie—this kid thing? I wasn’t sure how it was going to work. But I’m actually enjoying it. Otto is a cool kid, and I’m feeling good about myself, like maybe I made a small but important difference in this kid’s attitude.
It feels really good to help him out.
Diego launches into a conversation—and, damn, the kid can talk—and I listen and nod for a bit as I dive back into my ice cream, freezing my tongue.
My phone buzzes. It’s Kenzi:
[text: Kenzi] How’s Otto?
I text her back a picture of the ice cream cones.
[text: Me] Chilling.
She sends a thumbs-up emoji.
I finish off my cone and then toss it. Diego finishes an overlong description of the Transformers movie.
Otto has been in the bathroom for—what. Five minutes? Ten?
I decide it’s time to check in.
I duck inside. The immediate change from cold to hot is smothering. I go to the men’s room and knock on the door.
“Hey, buddy. How’s it going in there? Going number two? That’s cool—you know, sometimes it helps if you hum. Relaxes the muscles—”
The door swings open, and a grown man glares at me.
“Oh. My bad. Is there a little boy in there?”
The line of his mouth thins. “What do I look like?”
He exits, and I glance in. Single stall…no sign of Otto.
When I get nervous, my blood pressure drops. I get scary calm. I can feel it now, my blood turning to ice, that soul-leaving-my-body sensation. I look around the ice cream shop, but there’s only one other customer here. There’s a girl behind the counter, texting, and I approach with a smile. “Hey. How’s it going?”
Her eyes lift, and I see her do “the look”—a prowling scan down my body—and she suddenly loses interest in her phone. “Can I help you?”
“Have you seen a little boy running through here? Yea high, pink backpack?”
She shrugs. “You’re a dad, huh?” She bites her lip. “Do you need a babysitter? I can give you my number.”
“You’ve been a lot of help. Thanks.”
I move quickly out of the shop and scan the area. Nothing but picnic benches and a dusting of snow on everything.
The weather is brutal, and there’s hardly anyone around, but I stop everyone I see and ask if they’ve seen a boy that fits Otto’s description. Finally, a woman lets me know she saw a kid with a backpack walking down Main Street on his own.
How far could he have gotten? I race down the street, looking everywhere. I try not to think about the cars rolling by. Or the slippery ice on the sidewalk. Or the freezing water on the docks across the way. I try not to let my mind run to the worst-case scenario.
Shit. Fuck.
Otto is nowhere in sight.
I bite the bullet. I have no other choice. I pick up my phone and call his mom.
“Hey,” I say, “so you’re not going to like this—”
We split up to cover more ground.
Maria and Diego cover the aquarium. Kenzi takes her car back to the house, in case Otto has hitched a ride there.
Donovan and I take his car and drive in circles up and down Main Street. We circle the ice cream shop, around the bookstore, up and down.
“What did you say to him?” Donovan asks.
“I don’t know! We were just…talking about normal stuff. And then he went to the bathroom and never came back.”
“Define normal stuff.”
“Like…taking charge. Writing your own destiny.”
“Okay. Maybe leave Guru Jason at home. Sounds a little existential for a kid.”
“He started it!”
My stomach is in so many knots, I can barely breathe.
Then I see a flash of pink, and my hand clutches the dashboard. “Stop. There. On the ferry. Pull in. Is that him?”
Across the gravel parking lot of the loading dock, I can see a small child sneak aboard. They’re taking the lines off the huge pilings, casting off, when Otto ducks underneath the rope keeping passengers from boarding and scrambles up the ramp.
“I see him,” Donovan says and immediately turns left in the parking lot.
The ferry blasts its horn, signaling its departure. He barely brings the car to a stop before I open the door and leap out. Donovan is close on my heels.
The ramp has already been pulled up, and the engine is churning.
“It’s pulling away,” Donovan says. His voice is thin with panic, and I can practically hear his brain working. “I’m going to find a radio.”
“Good idea.”
Donovan rushes to the ticket seller’s booth, and I can hear him demanding that the guy use his radio to contact the ferryman. I don’t have a plan, but I don’t stop moving forward.
I race to the very edge of the dock. The street falls away into a steep drop, nothing but a worn rope keeping me from the churning, icy water below.
John, a straggly dude who works the ferry on the off-season, comes up and puts his hand on my chest. “Hey—no more passengers right now. Sorry, Mr. King. It’s already departed.”
“There’s a kid on there,” I say. “He’s all alone.”
John looks at me, then looks at the ferry. “Shit—okay. Here’s what I’m gonna do. I’ll radio Mike and he’ll bring him back on the return trip.”
“The return trip? I can see him—he’s right there.”
John grimaces. “Like I said, it’s already departed. There’s nothing I can do—”
“Otto!” I shout his name, and the kid turns. He’s clutching his backpack, and when he sees me, his eyes go wide. “Don’t worry, buddy!” I tell him. “I’m coming to get you!”
I push past John and swing my legs over the rope barrier. I’m on the very edge of Hannsett Island now, clutching the rope behind me. The ferry is five, six feet away. Below, a drop into freezing cold water, and the low growl of the engine chopping and churning.
“Yo…” John’s voice behind me, “Mr. King, you gotta come back over…”
The passengers on board turn at the commotion and stare at me, bug-eyed.
But the ferry moves forward, inching away from the landing platform, and it’s now or never.
I take a breath.
“I can do this,” I say out loud, and in that second, I believe it.
I jump. I launch myself across the empty air between the dock and the ferry. There’s a scream from someone on the ferry. I scramble, reaching, and I manage to grab the railing. The force of hitting the side of the boat knocks the breath from my gut, but I made it.
The ferry is slippery, covered in snow and ice, and my shoes can’t get any traction. As I try to strengthen my grip, I feel myself slip, and I just barely catch myself, hanging half on the railing, half on the decorative garland that loops around the siding.
It’s a struggle to hold on, and the muscles in my arms quiver. A pair of hands grabs me by the jacket. “Are you insane?” the attendant asks as he hoists. Another passenger helps, and between the three of us, I manage to awkwardly scramble over the railing and finally hit the deck.
I’m short of breath, adrenaline screaming through me. But I’m alive. And there’s Otto—looking like a gazelle face-to-face with a lion.
I approach him, put my hands on my knees, and catch my breath. “Whew! Nothing like a hit of excitement to wake you up, right, bud?”
“I’m sorry…” Otto says, his voice shaky.
I need to sit down. I plop down beside him, leaning against the wall, and lift my hand. “I’m not mad,” I tell him, because he looks like he needs to hear it. “Just…can you please hold my hand?”
He does. I don’t let him out of my sight, and I don’t let go of his hand as the ferry chugs along.
