The Probability of Miracles by Wendy Wunder Page B

provided a splintery buffer against the wavy blue harbor. As buildings moved up the slope away from the water, they became sturdier and more permanent. The brick buildings of Main Street housed a fire station, complete with a jumpy Dalmatian pacing back and forth in front of it; a hardware store; and some art galleries in what used to be the gristmill. The big waterwheel, still in operation, provided entertainment for the toddlers who watched it from behind a fence while they ate their ice cream cones from the parlor across the street. At the end of the street the sharp white needle of the church’s steeple poked into the sky as if heaven were a big balloon that needed to be popped.
    Cam rolled down her window and pulled the earbuds from her ears. The sound of the buoys clanging in the distance harmonized with the sloshing of the waves against the dock and the squawking of the gulls. The bright light of the setting sun was tempered just enough by the mist so that you didn’t need to squint. The air was not too cold or too hot, not too dry and not too wet. It was perfect, and it felt like climbing into a bed with fresh, clean sheets.
    â€œI forgive you,” she told her sister, still focusing on the view. And because they were sisters, Perry understood exactly what she was talking about.
    â€œI won’t feel better until you’re in a good mood.”
    â€œThat’s going to take a while.”
    â€œMaybe we should have gotten rid of his cage,” said Perry, and they both looked at it, still strapped to the back seat with a seat belt. Tweety’s little swing creaked back and forth with the swaying of the car.
    â€œNo. I want to keep it,” said Cam.
    â€œKeep your eyes peeled for a hotel or something,” said Alicia as they drove down the main street past a bookstore, café, post office, and lobster pound.
    Every time they turned off the main road, they seemed to get lost and have a hard time getting back to it. And when they did get back to the main road, each time it looked a little different. The bookstore seemed to have morphed into a pub with a hand-painted, golden beer mug sign swinging on its hinges. The post office seemed to have become the bakery. It seemed to Cam like the barbershop pole she had seen on the far corner had now become an upside-down blue tuna fish sign advertising the fishmonger’s. On their third pass, Cam finally saw a real estate office, but it was closed for the evening. They tried to find the gravel path that brought them into town from the Dunkin’ Donuts, but it seemed to have completely disappeared. There was no place in town to stay and no way to get out.
    Alicia was starting to sweat a bit. She sat slumped over the steering wheel as she drove, and she couldn’t stop cracking her gum. Cam could tell she was having one of those single-mother moments where she felt totally alone with no one to turn to. She was doubting herself, wondering what she had gotten them into. It reminded Cam of the time she took them to Sanibel Island with every penny of her savings, and it rained the entire time.
    Cam hated how she could feel her mother’s emotions, her desperation, as if she were still symbiotically connected to her with some kind of tortuous emotional umbilical cord, while Perry sat happily in the back seat licking the cream out of her whoopie pie. Cam hated being the oldest.
    â€œIt’s okay, Mom,” she said. “We’ll figure something out.”
    â€œThanks, hon,” said her mom. “Why don’t we take a break at the lobster pound?” It was the only building that seemed to stay put.
    Cam didn’t get why it was called a lobster “pound” except for the fact that this was where lobsters went to die. Like a dog pound. Were they bad, vagrant, stray lobsters? Or just law-abiding crustaceans minding their own business at the bottom of the ocean? “Lobster pound” was just a misnomer and an