The floor falls away, but my house is small, and a chair is close. I fumble the envelope open.

Dear Misha,

My sister's neat, round writing blurs.

Dear Misha,

Mom has cancer. It's pancreatic. They're starting treatment right away, and they speak in hopeful voices, but I don't think she has much time. I'm sorry to send this news in the mail. Please come home soon.

The day stops. And isn't this what I feared--another bad thing?

I'm still shaking, but I reach into the cookie jar and pull out my cash.

It's time to see the Chief.

It's been five days since my sister's letter arrived, and I'm ready to phone her. But a call is expensive, and I don't know whether she'll be there, whether she'll answer. She must have a cell phone, but I don't have her number. This is ridiculous.

How long does it take to run these tests? How long until the results come back from the lab?

I'm knitting like a mad woman. I've stopped reading books. I'm desperate now for cash--and news. I could make another trip to Ushuaia, maybe find some kind of late-Autumn customers looking for pullovers or cardigans. But I don't want to leave and miss the mail.

I hear steps outside, and a quick knock, and Alex opens the door. A swale of health and energy.

"Busy?"

I set my needles down.

"No, come on in. I'll make you some tea."

"I won't stay. I'm making the mail rounds today, and I brought you this."

The thin blue envelope looks extra fragile in his hand. I take it slowly.

"Good luck," he adds as he closes the door.

Saturday market--bushels of onions, squash, and more crab. The fresh vegetables dwindle, and I wonder what Henry and the others eat all winter.

Food is a simple distraction. I haven't heard again from Becky. I'm waiting, certain another letter must be on the way. I'm trying not to jump to conclusions, because my conclusions are always the worst. I'm trying and failing.

People mill among the stalls. I pay for my squash and start back up the hill, toward the Chief's house. The walk feels steeper today, harder. I haven't wanted to talk to him yet, not until I knew something for sure.

Why do I think I'll know anything for sure?

Stone silent, stone cold, bone empty, the air sucked out.

I read the letter again, and the questions yawn in front of me. What has happened since she sent this? What tests? How did they come out?

I read the letter a third time.

...if the news isn't good.

"Misha, what--?"

Lydia rushes from behind the counter.

Now I'm crying, and I can't stop.

I slit open the envelope, knowing I should write to my sister more often.

Dear Misha,

Mom isn't doing well. We went up to Seattle for some tests and are waiting to hear back, either an answer or more tests. By the time you get this, I might know something. If I do, I'll send it along.

But I wish you were here, and I hope you can find some way to get home if the news isn't good. I don't want to make a big deal if it's nothing, but I'm worried. Keep a prayer for us.

Love,

Becky

I have to turn over the postcard now.

Dear Misha,

Just wanted to say I'm thinking about you.

Heading next week to La Serena--not in the right direction yet.

How are things with you?

See you soon, I hope.

Still here,

Sevario

Lydia brings me a plate of hot empanadas and a beer, then floffs down into the other chair at the little table.

"I think it's time for my break."

"Busy day?"

"Enough. I think the expeditions are coming back through."

We watch a group of people trudge up the street, stopping to point and comment--everything new to them. They look like scientists. Some days in Puerto Williams everyone looks like a scientist.

"I just feel like I need to get out of here--get outside in some air before it's dark."

"Do you want me to stay for a while?"

Lydia pauses. "Could you work for me this weekend? Alex is coming through, and if the weather holds, we can do a little hiking."

What can I say? Besides, it will be good for me to get out of my own little house, see some new faces, fix up something besides a pot of beans.

"Sure. I can cover for you."

Alex--and yet the postcard burns in my hand.

"What have you got there," Lydia asks, eyeing the photograph from Santiago.

"Haven't read it."

"You're impossible!" She makes half a grab at it, and then she wipes her hands on her apron and sashays back behind the counter.

A brisk Autumn, the wind snapping, blowing right through me as I walk down the hill into Puerto Williams. Picking up the mail has become a daily ritual instead of once a week. I don't find something every day, but I can feel my heart lifting just a little in my rib cage--just in case.

This afternoon, a letter from my sister and another postcard from Sevario, a picture of Cerro Santa Lucia. I look at the photograph, not wanting to turn the card over yet, savoring that delicious anticipation. I tuck both into my jacket pocket and head down the street to see Lydia.

(This on a postcard.)

Dear Misha,

I'm in Nevados de Chillàn, covering the sea and spa scene--spring on the slopes.

How are you? I'm still angling for another assignment down south. Tell the Chief hello for me. And Lydia.

-- Sevario

Succinct. But it's a postcard. I met him for a couple of days. But I read it again.

Dear Misha,

I read your letters and I realize I've never heard you, the sound of your voice. I don't want to hear it flattened, compressed into a recording, or stretched thin over the wires.

Maybe this is sudden--too sudden, this need to meet you, to be with you. Why now, after so many years?

I walk along the docks before the sun comes up, listen to the birds and the slosh and the clanks. I listen to the old men tell stories over beer and Aqvavit. I listen to the wind sweeping through the streets. I've hung a wind chime up at the house. I hope you'll like it.

South Bend sounds bright--maybe in the winter? That's too long, too far away. Or right away. Yes, it sounds crazy. But I just finished another project, and I've been saving. I'll talk to Holloran about flights.

We will meet.

Two cards

February 2. Back home, it is Groundhog day--a day of hope, a trust that Spring will come and maybe even soon. No matter that the Northwest sky would still hunker down like a wet blanket until March rolled in on its fierce winds. No matter that night still dropped early.

Here on the opposite side of the equator, it's a sad day for me, a sign that Autumn is growing serious. It will be dark sooner and longer until we leave for the north.

Again, I consider some mid-point. And I knit and purl and cable. The stream of travelers through Puerto Williams is thinning, but the cash in my jar has grown.

Is it enough?

I think at this rate it might take decades for me to meet Henry anywhere. Saverio is closer.

And I stop. Both of these are impossible. I'm talking about traveling hundreds or thousands of miles to see two men--neither of whom I even know. That isn't even safe. It's crazy. It's not me.

Then I look at the letters resting on the kitchen table, and I read each one.