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“Oh?” That same look returns as she stops short. “Oh! You have CF.”

“You don’t need to stay six feet away,” I say, smiling. “If you’ve heard that, it only applies to me with other CF patients.”

“I saw a movie about that,” she says. “Two young people with CF who had to stay six feet apart.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Mostly Hollywood nonsense. Basically, the rule is meant to guard against inhaling lung cultures other CF folks might be carrying. Precautions could be taken. As for the vest, itkeeps me breathing. While I look like I’m ready to go boating, I don’t think I’d be doing that today with these bugs.”

She gives a soft laugh. “I’ll bet that was a bit of a shock to wake up to. I thought I’d stop by with these.” She lifts the box. “And also to make sure you knew about the midges.”

“So it’s not a sign of the apocalypse?”

Another laugh as she relaxes. “Oh, it might be, but it’s a very short and regular apocalypse on Lake Erie. Every spring and fall, the lake flies invade. They mate and then return to the lake. Well, the females do. The males die, which is a whole other mess. The birds appreciate the feast, though.”

“I bet they do. So this is a regular occurrence?”

She nods. “I thought I saw a swarm over the lake yesterday, and I considered mentioning it, but I didn’t want to worry you, in case it turned out to be nothing. We really can’t predict when—or even if—they’ll arrive.”

“How rude of them,” I say.

“Very rude. But with any luck, this is the worst it will get. Walks are best in the sunlight. They don’t bite, but they’ll crawl over you and get in your mouth and nose.”

I shudder. “As I discovered.”

“Deeply unpleasant, but not dangerous. Keep the porch lights off at night. And if they get inside, try to scoop them in a tissue rather than crushing them. They leave a nasty stain.”

Mrs. Kilmer peers over the lake. “Those swarms will hopefully land farther up or down the coast. Then these ones will be gone in a day or two.”

“Thank you. For the bug intel and for…” I look at the box.

She hesitates, and I play back what she said. Did she not plan to give us whatever was in there? That would be incredibly awkward.

She holds out the box. “Yes, it’s cookies. Chocolate chip and sugar. No nuts, in case that’s an issue.”

“It’s not, but thank you.”

She keeps her hold on the box even as I reach for it. “One other thing. My son seems to have stepped out last night, maybe for a walk. You haven’t seen him, have you?”

I pause to process that. “You have a missing child?”

“Oh, no.” A laugh that doesn’t sell itself. At all. “Brodie is twenty-four. He came back home a few months ago. You know what it’s like. Hard for young people these days to find steady work that pays the bills. He just wasn’t home this morning, and his car’s still in the garage, which means he went for a walk. He does that. He likes to come this way at night.”

Last night? With the bugs?

Also, even at twenty-four, if I wasn’t home by morning, Mom would have been calling in the search dogs.

To judge that, though, would be to judge Mrs. Kilmer as a parent, which is a shitty thing to do. Maybe her son has a hookup in town and doesn’t always get back by morning.

That boy just loves his walks. Sleeps out under the stars and a layer of lake flies for a cozy blanket.

“I haven’t seen anyone,” I say. “If I do, though, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.”

“Brodie,” she says. “His name is Brodie. He’s five foot ten and a hundred and sixty pounds. Short light brown hair and blue eyes. He’s probably wearing a ball cap and his plaid jacket.”

That’s… very specific. It sounds as if she’d given this information before, possibly to the authorities.

Is Brodie special needs? Or does he have mental-health issues? That would make this scenario a whole lot less confusing.

I can’t ask that outright, so I say, “Is there anything else I should know?”