Free The Edge of Lost by Kristina McMorris Page A

softened. She ignored another burst of hammering, this time resembling a bird tapping a tree. “You say you have a picture?”
    Shan tamped his enthusiasm and reached into his pocket.
    Holding out her hand, she said, “The chief really does have meetings most of the day. But if you’d care to leave it with me, I’ll be sure to pass it along.”
    Shan peered at the photo. He hadn’t been aware of its existence until the night before, but already he considered it a prized possession. Though he’d memorized the sailor’s features—an easy task, given their similarity to Shan’s—he still feared losing his only record of the man.
    “I promise to keep it safe,” she said in understanding. “Or … if you’d like to come back with it, you’re welcome to. I just can’t guarantee when Chief Madison will be available. Recruits and Navy business take priority, as you can imagine.”
    The phone rang on her desk.
    Shan resented the insistence of its metal bell but welcomed the opportunity to think. He weighed his choices as the secretary handled the call.
    The sooner the chief received the photo, the faster he could act. Shan struggled to trust anyone, let alone a stranger. But if he wanted to find his father, any such worries couldn’t block the way.
    “Yes, three o’clock on Tuesday,” she said to the caller, and wrote something down. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Enjoy your day, as well.”
    She hung up the phone and finished her notes. By the time she looked up, Shan had brought himself to relinquish the photograph. She accepted the offering only by its edges, a display of care, fulfilling her word.
    “When you hear of anything,” he began.
    “You’ll be the first to know,” she said. “And if I can personally help, I certainly will.”

10
    O f all the things the Irish had in common, their knowledge of rain—and by relation, clouds—ranked near the top. Among the most favored were light wispy ones that feathered a summer sky, and billowy puffs the color of milk. You had to enjoy them while they lasted, because inevitably they would darken into a wall of gray, dense and cold and ripe for a storm.
    It was that type of cloud Shan now imagined hovering over the dining room, where tension saturated the air. Any moment it would reach its limit, unleashing a downpour on them all. Until then, Shan would quietly eat his supper in the guarded manner he had long ago mastered. And he would try not to dwell on thoughts of the recruiting station—even though three days had passed without a word.
    “ Allora, I forget,” Mrs. Capello said, breaking the silence. “We have bread.” She rose and scurried to the kitchen for what must have been the twentieth time since the meal began, either a motherly habit or an excuse to flee.
    A minute later, she offered the small basket of rolls directly to Shan, suggesting she had noticed his trepidation over tonight’s oddities: eggplant fried in oil from olives, paper-thin slices of salty ham, and a grain called “polenta.” On the upside, they were something other than the family’s staple of noodles covered in sauce made of stewed tomatoes, referred to as “macaroni and gravy.” The latter, mind you, bore no resemblance to the gravy Shan knew from Ireland. But Mrs. Capello showed such pride in her menus—supposedly diverse, thanks to a southern Italian grandmother—he always did his best to clean his plate. Besides, food was food.
    He accepted a roll with gratitude, then passed the basket to Nick. Once it had made a full round, Mr. Capello picked up the decanter of red wine to refill his glass. Shan, in fact, was the only one at the table not indulging in the drink that appeared to be treated as water.
    “Say, Pop,” Nick said, and swallowed a bite of bread. “Since we got a guest, I was wondering if I could borrow a few bucks. Thought I’d take Shan to Coney Island, show him the highlights.”
    “Borrow?” Mr. Capello repeated the word as though unfamiliar with the