A rush of memories washed over Kenny, welling in his chest so much as to be painful. The salmon, like red ribbons, hanging, cured by breeze and smoke. His mother, singing to him in the old language, smiling and putting him to work, carrying the little load of kindling he was strong enough for. Mom. Kenny ran, his feet remembering a long-ago path. He forgot Clifford, the pretty dark-haired lady and her quiet man. He forgot the boat, the school, the long, cold escape. He felt as though his feet weren't even touching the ground until he ran through the seagrasses at the end of the trail and his feet fell against the heavy layers of small stones that made the ground both solid and malleable. He ran in an awkward stagger, his feet sinking inches into the layers pf pebbles with each stride. He saw the smokehouse and was sure he could smell the slow alder smoke, just like that day seven years ago. 

Breathless, he ran into the smokehouse and was stunned to find it empty and cold. No fire, no salmon hanging, no mom. He looked around at the broken-down smokehouse as a cold breeze blew through the door. The plank walls looked like a toothless monster, the sea visible through the gaps left without repair. A pile of ancient alder firewood stood rotting in one corner. The firepit lay bare of even ash, leaving just a circle of cold stones.