Page 89 of Wayfarers

“Ants? Sylvie! What do you take me for?”

“You could be an anteater dressed as a human boy.”

“I could, sure, anything’s possible, but wouldn’t that require a pretty elaborate costume? Like anteaters have a fairly distinctive facial structure. Also, if I were an anteater trying to pass as human, wouldn’t the last thing I do be to recommend, you know, eating ants? Wouldn’t that arouse a lot of suspicion?”

“That’s a very good point, actually.”

“I feel like I would really lean into the human food, to the point that it was conspicuous. Like, ‘have you guys noticed how much Knox brings up loving hamburgers and pizza? And completely out of nowhere in weird contexts where it’s completely irrelevant?’”

“Okay fine. You’ve persuaded me you aren’t an anteater posing as human. So what are weirdly tasty?”

“Apple seeds. They taste like little almonds.”

“Oh Knox. Oh buddy.”

“What? Are you about to break my heart somehow?” You easily could.

“Only if it would break your heart to learn you’ve been eating cyanide.”

“Do what now?!”

“Yeah, apple seeds have cyanide in them. Hence the almond taste.”

“Well.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s not good.”

“Probably not. Probably best to limit your cyanide consumption.”

The dryer we’re sharing buzzes. We unload the hot, fragrant clothes and stuff them in our bags. I discreetly press a T-shirt to my face and draw a deep whiff while Sylvie is fiddling with her bag’s zipper. A scent memory for this day. One of the only ways I ever had of seeking permanence.

“So,” Sylvie says. “You still down to see the House on the Rock?”

“Yeah. Remind me the deal with it again?”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t?”

“No, I mean—” She looks a little embarrassed. “I hate it when people do this to me, but I can’t really describe it to you beforehand. Not because it’s, like, that indescribable, but because whatever I say is going to make it sound so much less cool than it actually is. You have to trust the process.”

“I trust the process. Well, I trust you.”

She likes that, I think. “Thanks.”

“It’s going to be a blast,” I say, but honestly who am I kidding? Sylvie could have told me that we were going to World O’ Stubbed Toes, where they make you put on a pair of clammy, damp flip-flops and then you just go around stubbing your toes on coffee table legs and doorframes while they pipe wasps and the smell of boiled cabbage into the room, and I’d still have fun if she was there.

“But here’s the thing.” Sylvie studies her phone. “They say you wanna get to House on the Rock right when it opens so you have time to see everything.”

“So we should find a place close by to camp.”

“That’s what I’m thinking. Got any ideas?” Sylvie hands me her phone with a map of our route pulled up.

Our route hugs the shore of Lake Michigan. I zoom in. “Ever been to Indiana Dunes National Park?”

“Nope. You?”