I didn't show the article to anyone. I wouldn't let it out of my sight. It stayed in my pocket until a few days later, when I got the chance to go see Mrs. McBride. Obviously, I couldn't have shown the newspaper to my mother or sisters. It was almost thirteen years old; my family wouldn't care at all about it. A sliver of me wanted to rush to Jillian the following day at school and cry, Look! I've found the answer to the mystery of the missing newspapers! but I hadn't spoken to her in a very long time. Ever since she laughed at me for being miserable, we'd pretended we didn't even know each other. When I thought about Jude, I found myself wanting to tell him everything. But I couldn't. Not yet. He was getting better, and I didn't know whether I should tell him about the drowning.

I still had questions of my own. I hadn't gone to see Mrs. McBride since she'd gone out of town. She'd returned from her trip, but I hadn't had time for her. Part of me was angry that she hadn't been there for me when I wanted to speak with her. Now, though, I had to talk to somebody, and she would just have to do.

"How nice of you to visit me, Nat," said Mrs. McBride right when I stepped into her house. "I was wondering if you'd ever come over again! It's been quite some time. I know school's probably kept you busy, right? Well, come on into the front room, dear, and tell me what brings you to my humble house today."

When I went into the room, I gaped. It was spotlessly clean, for once. The past times I'd seen it, the place had been smothered with her scrapbook materials. I hardly recognized the furniture and the floor because other times, they'd been hidden. Mrs. McBride saw my surprise, and she smiled. Then she motioned for me to have a seat on her sofa. "Where are all of your things?" I asked her. In a small way, I was sad that all signs of her craftwork were gone. It just didn't seem right that the room was so clean, somehow.

"It's been a long while since you were here, darling. I finished my scrapbook a couple of weeks ago. I'm not yet sure if I like the way it turned out, though. You'll have to help me decided on it. But first I want to hear what's got you upset enough to pay me a visit."

I scratched my cheek. "So much has been going on," I began.

"Yes, I bet it has," she replied. "I knew that's why I haven't seen much of you. By the way, does your mother know you stopped by my house, or do I need to give her a call and tell her you're here?"

I blushed. Did Mrs. McBride know how strictly my mother was keeping her eye on me? "Yes, she knows I'm here. I asked her if I could come over, and she didn't mind, as long as I'm home for dinner." I didn't tell her that my mother had even watched me cross the street. It was almost embarrassing that she was treating me like a two year old. I wasn't doing anything wrong! I rubbed my nose in frustration. "Can I have something to drink, Mrs. McBride?" Maybe it was rude of me to ask her, but I needed a moment to gather my thoughts.

With a nod, she got up. She didn't bring in anything hot; she came in with two glasses of lemonade and a plate of cookies. I didn't want the cookies, but I sipped my drink thirstily.

"Remember when you told me about a woman drowning in Moss Lake?" I asked her at long last. She said she did. "I know who it was. It was Mr. Black's daughter. Her name was Rebecca." I pulled the article out of my pocket and showed the picture to Mrs. McBride.

Frowning, the old woman shook her head. "That's right. I do remember it now. I wasn't here when it all happened. Never knew the woman myself, but I do remember him having a daughter. She was very pretty, don't you think?"

"The articles said that she had an argument with her father, and that she left the house really upset. It said they didn't know whether she committed suicide or not. It said that she went out on a boat onto the lake, and they didn't see her again until they found her body at the bottom of it." It was horrible – the way she had died. But this was no time to mince words. "And it said that Mr. Black was really hurt by all of it. That was why he shut himself up and wouldn't let anybody near his house. That's especially why he didn't want anyone near the lake."

"Yes, it does make sense."

"Mrs. McBride, do you think that he can ever be happy again?"

The woman looked at me in concern. I didn't want her concern, though. I wanted answers. "I can't tell you that, dear. I don't know," she said.

"Because if he can never be happy, my friend can't. And that just wouldn't be fair."

"Not everything is fair, Nat."

"We took a risk, like you said we should. Remember? And he's getting better . . . my friend. But he still isn't all the way cured, and I'm just tired of it! I want Mr. Black to be happy. How can I do that?"

Mrs. McBride held up her hand to stop me. "Now hold on a minute. You can't make people happy. Happiness isn't a present you can give someone. It's not like a hat you can wear. Some people pretend that it is, but they're only fooling themselves. You can't force someone into happiness. They have to come to it on their own."

"But don't they want to be happy? Why wouldn't someone want to be? That's just stupid. Everyone wants to be happy. If it were that easy to make yourself happy, everyone would do it. So why are there so many sad or angry people?"

"Nat, it isn't so easy as wishing yourself cheerful. Maybe you won't understand, but there are many people – a lot more than you'd even guess – who don't want to be happy. Some don't know anything other than sadness or grief. Being downcast becomes a way of life for them. And you know just as well as I do that being familiar with something makes you comfortable. It's like daily life. You wake up in the morning, eat breakfast, get dressed, and go to school. If, all of a sudden, your life changed and you went to sleep in the morning, ate dinner when you woke up, walked around in your pajamas, and went hiking instead of to school, I have a feeling you'd be in a terribly confused, anxious state. Change scares people, dear, and that's why so many folks don't want it. If someone has spent a great deal of time being sad or lonely, they might not want change. They're frightened of walking those miles of uncertainty, even if it means they'll reach a better place in the end."

I looked at my hands, not really seeing them. My attention was somewhere else, hearing but not exactly listening to what Mrs. McBride was saying. I didn't like her answers. There had to be a way to make Mr. Black completely happy. Just because neither she nor I knew what it was didn't mean that it was nonexistent. "I have to go," I told her. She wasn't making things easier for me. She didn't have all the answers the way I thought she would. I was disappointed in her. Standing up, I showed myself to the door. Mrs. McBride didn't even follow me out.

I crossed the street and returned to my house. No matter what that old woman had said, I couldn't believe that some people actually liked being sad. If they knew there was a way to make themselves happy, why in the world wouldn't they try it? It was just ridiculous to think that people found loneliness, anger, and grief comfortable. Mrs. McBride was a crazy old woman. She didn't know anything. She and Jill and my family were all the same – none of them could help me help Jude. They just didn't care enough to try. I would have to do it all on my own, just as I'd been doing.