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“Oh, aye, I reckon he did. Duncan always claimed he saw the beast. Swore on it, if you got him good and steamin’.”

“Steaming?”

“That’s drunk to you, hen.”

Hen?

Probably be here all day if I stop him for a slang lesson every time it comes up.

“You saw my dad drunk?”

“A time or two. Before he took off.” Mr. Campbell scratches at his jaw. “I was sad to see him go. How’s the auld boy getting along, then? He not come with you?”

I feel a twinge of pain in my chest; even after six months, it still hurts to think he can’t be here with me. “He…passed,” I tell him. “In the spring.”

“Ah, lass.” Hamish sighs, looking truly grieved by the news. “I am sorry to hear that. He was a good man, your da. Can I ask how he went?”

“Pneumonia,” I explain. “He was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s a few years ago, and he just sort of…degenerated. He came down with pneumonia after a bad winter, and he—” I have to clear my throat, feeling it grow thicker. “He didn’t recover.”

“Oh, hen.” Hamish’s blue eyes glitter with genuine emotion, which only worsens the pressure I’m feeling in my chest. Hamish reaches into his jacket pocket to retrieve a handkerchief, rubbing at his nose briefly before stowing it away. “I’m sorry, love. And your mum? We all heard the stories about how Duncan ran off with a wily American—is she not here with you?”

He’s determined to pick at all my scabs today, isn’t he?

“My mother died giving birth to me,” I manage stiffly.

Hamish blows out a breath. “Aye, I’ve really stepped innit, haven’t I? Forgive me for being a nosy bastard.” He shakes his head, clearing his throat as he gestures to my car. “How’s about I get to work on this, then? There’s some lovely views from the hill there”—he points across the lush green expanse stretching beyond the little knoll his sheep are currently crowding—“and your cove is nigh a mile”—he turns his finger in the other direction—“that way.” He winks. “If you’re brave enough, mind you.”

I chuckle softly. “I’m not afraid.”

“Well, mind the rocks, would you? It really is unsafe. Keep to the shore, aye?”

“I will,” I assure him. “And thank you for your help.”

He waves me off. “Think nothing of it. We’re a close-knit group here in Greerloch, and you’re family apparently! Don’t you worry, I’ll have this fixed up in no time.”

He turns to shoo away one of the bleating fluff-monsters currently nibbling at his coat hem, pushing his way through the masses toward my poor, pathetic rental car. I watch him for a moment, wondering if it’sactuallywise to leave my car with some stranger, but honestly, what choice do I have? It’s not like I can fix it myself, and my only other alternative is to lock myself inside and hope someone else comes along. I let my eyes sweep across the sprawling, endless green of the landscape, not seeing any signs of life outside of Hamish and his horde.

I guess that’s what the rental insurance is for.

I turn toward the direction he pointed out, which leads to the massive hill that supposedly hides the way to Skallangal Cove, thinking that now is just as good a time as any. I hoist my backpack uphigher onto my shoulders—taking a deep breath and letting it out as I turn toward the hill.

Onwards and upwards, I guess.

I doubt Hamish’s “nigh a mile” more and more as I trek across the grass; the hill itself was a feat, less of a “hill” up close and more of a small mountain, really. My thighs burn with effort as I walk, and I’m sure my watch is probably organizing me a pizza party for the overabundance of steps I’m getting in today. But when I finally see the glittering surface of the loch come into view, the sun shining on the small waves and making them sparkle, I think maybe it was worth all the steps.

Ever since I set foot in Scotland, I can’t seem to get over how beautiful it is. The land itself seems to be alive all around me—almost as if I can feel the hum of life in the air and beneath my feet. The colors feel more vibrant, the sights and sounds more lovely, and I can see it, I think.Feelit, even. Why my father was so wistful when he spoke of his homeland.

There are signs as I get closer—the standard “Keep Out” and “Danger” posted along the barely there path that leads onto the rocky shore—but given that there isn’t a single soul for miles, it would seem, I think I’m probably fine to explore a little. I mean, who’s going to tell me I can’t? Hamish’s sheep?

Therearea good number of large rocks jutting up at the water’s edge, giving the shore a craggy effect that I can definitely see being a problem for kids wanting to adventure onto them. For a moment, I can only stare at the quiet, rolling water that gently ebbs back and forth against the shore, struck with a sudden memory that isn’tmine—one thatfeelslike mine for as many times as I’ve heard my dad recount it.

He was just there. Just beyond the shore. I’d slipped on the rocks, see? I thought I’d drown…but he saved me. Me! Of all people…

As a kid, the story of my dad’s salvation at the hands of some mythical beast had been thrilling. I remember late nights of begging him to hear it “just one more time”—anything to avoid bedtime. Sometimes, I can still hear his voice, soft and comforting, as he lulled me to sleep. Still feel his fingers on my brow, pushing my curls away from my face as my eyes drifted shut.

In the end, his stories were all he had.

I drop my backpack onto the ground and start to dig through it, my hands shaking a little as I pull out the black capsule.