There was no changing that Rex was dead, but you could further your understanding of what that actually meant. You had to hide the books on life after death from your aunt because she wouldn't have understood, and you made sure to delete your browser history every day just in case.
Sometimes what you read unsettled you, and you couldn't sleep at night, even with the light on. Still, it was something to do, and it felt productive, like you may have really been learning something.
It worked for a time.
Then summer came and you felt the pull, as if Arbor Isle had dropped an anchor in you and was trying to reel it back in. You could have stayed in New Hampshire if you really wanted to, but you could hear in your mom's voice that she wanted you back home, and your friends were steadily growing further and further away from you.
By July, you had made the decision, and now in the heat of August you are almost back home and there is no turning back.
A woman seated on a nearby bench has been staring at you. She doesn't stop when you finally make eye contact with her. You have no idea who she is, but she clearly knows you and doesn't like that you're here.
A lot of people know who you are now. It's hard to say what they see when they look at you—a monster, maybe, or perhaps just an unanswered question—but your mother is looking at you too, and to her you are just one thing.