February 1967, the dead of winter on Lake Champlain. Luna's grandfather was the last keeper of the Isle La Motte ferry, a man who knew every current and every rock. But on the night of the worst freeze in forty years, he heard something out on the ice that made him break his own rule: never go out when the fog settles. What he found was a figure standing on the ice, a man in a gray coat who spoke in a voice that didn't come from his mouth. The ferryman led him home, but my grandfather never spoke of it again — until the night he died. This is the story he told me, one time, under a bare bulb in a kitchen that smelled of woodsmoke and salt.

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