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She dropped the fillet and stood up. From the spice rack on the counter she plucked a small plastic bottle and returned to her chair. When she’d shaken half the bottle of chili powder into the cornmeal and stirred the mixture with her finger, she looked up at me, bewildered.

"Who are you?" she asked, a completely different person.

"My name’s Alex. Alex Young. I came here to—"

"Who let you in?"

"You did, Mrs. Kite. I knew your son, Luther, at Woodside College."

"Luther? He’s here?"

"No ma’am. I haven’t seen him in a long time. We were friends at school. Is he in Ocracoke right now? I’d really like to see him."

As the wave of lucidity engulfed her, her eyes traded confusion for sorrow. She pinched the bridge of her nose between her eyes as though her head hurt.

"I’m sorry. Sometimes my brain gets scrambled. What’s your name?"

"Alex. Do you know where—"

"And you were friends with my Luther?"

"Yes ma’am. At Woodside. I came here to see him."

"He’s not here."

"Well, do you know where he is? I’d love to—"

"I haven’t seen my son in seven years."

Her eyes blinked a dozen times in rapid succession. Then she grabbed a handful of cornmeal, sprinkled it onto a fillet, and began patting it into the meat.

She slammed her hand down on the table and my heart jumped.

"Luther, ass out of the chair, bring me a glass of water."

I got up and walked over to the sink. It overflowed with smelly dishes.

"When are you heading down to Portsmouth?" she asked as I washed a dirty glass.

"I don’t know."

I filled the glass from the tap and offered it to her.

"What’s this?" she asked.

"You asked for a glass of—"

"The hell I did. Get that out of my face." I set the glass on the counter. "If you are going down to Portsmouth today, I want you to go before it gets late. You got no business being out on the water after dark. And let me tell you another thing. I want the lodge left in immaculate condition. Your father and I are thinking of going down next weekend, and I don’t intend to spend my time cleaning up your shit."

She started on another fillet and as I watched her in the dreary natural light of the kitchen, I thought of my grandfather, Alexander, stricken with Alzheimer’s in his late 70’s. I knew the symptoms well and in the course of five minutes it had become clear to me that some form of dementia was ravaging the brain of Maxine Kite. It appalled me that she’d been left alone.

I started for the doorway.

"Where you going?" she asked.

"The bathroom. Mom."

Leaving Luther’s mother to her bluefish, I stepped out of the kitchen into the dark corridor. A door stood cracked at the end and as I walked toward it the house resumed its unnerving silence.

I could no longer hear Mrs. Kite in the kitchen or the moan of the wind outside.

At the end of the hall I pushed open the door and entered a small bookless library. A dying fire warmed the study, its barren bookshelves gray with dust.

An old and soiled American flag was displayed behind glass on one wall. It was shopworn, nearly colorless, riddled with holes made from fire, and so defiled I felt awkward and ashamed for looking at it.

On the stone above the hearth, a photograph caught my attention. It had been framed and mounted. Approaching the fire, I looked up, surprised to see that it was a photograph of the Outer Banks, taken from a satellite. I recognized the long skinny isle of Ocracoke by the harbor at its southern tip.

Of greater interest, however, was the collection of uninhabited islands a few miles south across the shallow inlet. I read their names: Casey. Sheep. Whalebone. Portsmouth.

Portsmouth. Turning away from the photograph, I felt the prickling exhilaration of discovery. But my heart stopped as my gaze fell upon the wall opposite the hearth.

The black soulless eyes of Luther stared back at me, grotesquely caricatured by the amateurish rendering. Though only a teenager in the oil painting, the vacuum in his eyes was unmistakable, a haunting prophecy of