A STRANGER ON THE ROAD

OUR SWEET CURSE

Chapter 5: A Stranger on the Road

---

Wednesday began with a plumbing emergency.

Edwin was awakened not by Bartholomew's customary assault on his eardrums, but by his grandmother's voice echoing up the stairwell with impressive volume.

"HAROLD JAMES CARTER, WHAT DID YOU DO TO THE SINK?"

He stumbled downstairs to find the kitchen in a state of aquatic chaos. Water was spraying from beneath the sink in enthusiastic arcs, Martha was attempting to contain the flood with a collection of towels, and Harold was standing in the middle of the disaster with a wrench in one hand and an expression of complete bewilderment on his face.

"I just tightened the thing!" Harold protested. "The pipe was loose!"

"The pipe was FINE. I've been using that sink for thirty years without incident!"

"It wobbled!"

"Everything wobbles at our age, Harold! That doesn't mean you attack it with tools!"

Edwin assessed the situation with the analytical skills that had served him well in corporate crisis management. The water was coming from a joint that had clearly been over-tightened to the point of catastrophic failure. The towels were fighting a losing battle. And his grandparents were about two sentences away from a full-scale marital dispute.

"Okay," he said, stepping into the fray. "Grandpa, where's the water shutoff valve?"

"The what?"

"The valve that stops water from coming into the house."

Harold blinked. "We have one of those?"

Martha groaned. "It's in the basement. The red handle next to the water heater. I've shown you fifteen times."

"I thought that was decorative!"

Edwin didn't wait for further debate. He splashed through the kitchen, navigated the basement stairs, and found the valve exactly where Martha had described. One firm turn later, the geyser in the kitchen fell silent.

He returned to find his grandparents standing in the wreckage, water dripping from the ceiling, towels scattered across the floor like defeated soldiers.

"So," Edwin said. "Anyone know a good plumber?"

---

The plumber, as it turned out, was a man named Frank who had been servicing the Carter household since Harold had accidentally destroyed the bathroom toilet in 1987.

"What'd he do this time?" Frank asked when he arrived, not even bothering to look surprised.

"Improved the sink," Edwin said.

"Ah. The improving. Classic Harold." Frank set down his toolbox with the weary familiarity of a man who had seen too much. "Let me guess—wrench?"

"How did you know?"

"It's always the wrench. I've tried to ban him from hardware stores, but he finds ways."

The repair took two hours, during which Frank regaled Edwin with a comprehensive history of Harold's home improvement disasters. There was the Great Electrical Incident of 1992 ("He wanted to 'upgrade' the wiring. Half the town lost power."), the Roof Adventure of 2001 ("He thought he could fix a leak himself. We found him on the lawn, covered in shingles, questioning his life choices."), and the recent Fence Fiasco of just last spring ("The fence was perfectly good. Now it leans at what I can only describe as a 'concerning angle.'").

"He means well," Frank concluded, soldering a joint with practiced ease. "Just has more enthusiasm than skill."

"I'm starting to understand the family dynamic."

"Dynamic is one word for it. I prefer 'job security.'" Frank tested the repaired pipe and nodded with satisfaction. "That should hold. Tell Harold to stay away from anything with threads, joints, or moving parts."

"That's... a lot of things."

"I'm aware."

Frank left with a handshake and a promise to return "when Harold inevitably finds something else to improve." Edwin helped his grandmother mop up the remaining water while Harold retreated to the porch, presumably to contemplate his crimes against plumbing.

"This is normal, isn't it?" Edwin asked, wringing out a towel into a bucket.

"Define normal."

"Grandpa breaking things. You yelling. Emergency professionals arriving with resignation in their eyes."

Martha laughed—a genuine, warm sound that echoed off the kitchen walls. "Your grandfather has many wonderful qualities. Mechanical aptitude is not among them. But he tries. That's what matters."

"Even when trying floods the kitchen?"

"Especially then. It keeps life interesting." She patted his cheek with a damp hand. "Besides, we needed new towels anyway. These ones were getting ratty."

Edwin looked at the pile of sodden, clearly ruined towels and decided not to point out the flaw in this logic.

Some battles weren't worth fighting.

---

By afternoon, order had been restored to the Carter household.

The kitchen was dry. The sink was functional. Harold had been forbidden from touching any tools for the remainder of the week ("Doctor's orders," Martha had claimed, despite no doctor being involved). And Edwin had been released from domestic duty with strict instructions to "go do something fun."

This was how he found himself, once again, in the company of Jake Henderson and the menace known as Butterscotch.

"Disc golf," Jake announced, brandishing a collection of colorful plastic discs. "Have you ever played?"

"I don't even know what that is."

"It's like regular golf, but with frisbees. And instead of holes, you aim for these chain basket things. It's extremely low-stakes and moderately ridiculous."

"That sounds... actually kind of fun."

"It is! Plus, the course is in the woods behind Mrs. Patterson's bakery, so there's a pastry incentive for finishing." Jake handed Edwin a disc that was apparently designed for beginners. "This one's for driving. You throw it as far as you can and hope it goes vaguely in the right direction."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Then you chase it through the underbrush while trying not to step on any wildlife. It's part of the experience."

The disc golf course, such as it was, consisted of nine "holes" marked by metal baskets attached to poles. The terrain between them was a mix of forest paths, open clearings, and what Jake cheerfully described as "challenge zones"—areas where the undergrowth was particularly dense and the likelihood of losing your disc approached one hundred percent.

Butterscotch, who had insisted on joining them despite having no understanding of the game's rules, treated each thrown disc as a personal challenge to intercept.

"BUTTERSCOTCH, NO—"

Too late. The golden blur snatched Edwin's disc out of the air and disappeared into the bushes, tail wagging triumphantly.

"That's... is that allowed?"

"It's not not allowed. The rules are pretty flexible out here." Jake cupped his hands around his mouth. "BUTTERSCOTCH! BRING IT BACK!"

A distant bark suggested that Butterscotch had no intention of complying.

"I'm sensing a pattern with this dog."

"He's an agent of chaos. I've accepted it." Jake threw his own disc, which sailed gracefully through the air and landed approximately three feet from the basket. "See? Easy. Just don't let the dog see you throw."

Edwin retrieved a spare disc from Jake's bag and attempted to replicate the technique. His disc veered wildly to the left and embedded itself in a bush.

"That's... one interpretation of the sport."

"I'm a beginner."

"I'm aware."

They made their way through the course with varying degrees of success. Jake, who had clearly done this before, maintained a casual competence that made the game look effortless. Edwin, who was quickly discovering that his hand-eye coordination was not what he'd assumed, managed to hit two trees, one rock, and Mrs. Patterson herself, who had chosen that exact moment to emerge from her bakery's back door.

"FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE!" she shrieked, ducking as the disc sailed past her head.

"SORRY! SO SORRY! I'M NEW AT THIS!"

"YOU'RE A MENACE IS WHAT YOU ARE!" But she was laughing as she said it, shaking her head with exasperated affection. "Both of you—finish your game, then come inside. I've got turnovers that need taste-testing."

The promise of turnovers provided motivation. Edwin focused with renewed intensity, and by the final hole, had managed to develop something approaching technique.

"Last one," Jake said. "Winner gets first pick of pastries."

"You've been winning the whole time."

"Then this is your chance for a comeback."

Edwin studied the basket, approximately fifty feet away across an open clearing. He considered the angle, the wind, the probability of Butterscotch making a surprise interception.

Then he threw.

The disc sailed through the air in a beautiful arc—straight, true, and heading directly toward the basket.

It hit the chains.

It bounced.

It fell... outside the basket, landing on the ground approximately one inch from victory.

Jake's disc, thrown immediately after, landed cleanly in the basket with a satisfying clatter.

"That was really close," Jake offered sympathetically.

"Close doesn't count in disc golf."

"Technically it does. There's a point system. But emotionally, yes, you lost."

Edwin laughed despite himself. A month ago, losing at anything—even a ridiculous made-up sport in the woods behind a bakery—would have irritated him. Now it just felt like part of the adventure.

"Turnovers," he said. "Let's go before Mrs. Patterson changes her mind."

---

Mrs. Patterson's turnovers were, as always, transcendent.

Edwin and Jake sat on the bakery's back steps, eating pastries and watching Butterscotch attempt to befriend a suspicious squirrel. The afternoon sun was warm, the breeze was gentle, and for a few perfect moments, everything felt simple.

"Friday's the big dinner, right?" Jake asked between bites. "The one where you finally meet the mystery neighbor?"

"If she shows up."

"Think she will?"

Edwin considered the question. "I don't know. Her parents seem hopeful, but she's bailed twice already."

"Maybe the third time's the charm."

"Maybe." He took another bite of turnover, contemplating. "Are you still curious about her? After she ran away from you?"

Jake shrugged. "Not romantically, if that's what you're asking. I just felt bad about it. Like I scared her somehow."

"I don't think it was you specifically."

"That's what you said before. Still makes me feel weird, though." Jake finished his pastry and brushed crumbs off his shirt. "If you do meet her, tell her I said hi. And that Butterscotch says hi too. Though maybe leave the dog part out. He's not great at first impressions."

As if on cue, Butterscotch chose that moment to stick his entire head into a garden bed and emerge covered in mulch.

"Yeah," Edwin agreed. "Maybe leave the dog part out."

---

It was late afternoon when Edwin finally headed home.

Jake had offered him a ride, but the weather was perfect for walking—warm but not hot, with a breeze that carried the scent of growing things. Edwin had come to appreciate these walks in a way he never had in the city, where every journey was a destination, a purpose, something to get through on the way to somewhere else.

Here, the journey was the point.

He was about halfway back to the Carter farm, following the winding road that connected the various properties, when he encountered the stranger.

The man was sitting on a large rock by the side of the road, dressed in clothes that seemed oddly formal for the countryside—a three-piece suit, slightly rumpled, with a pocket watch chain glinting in the sunlight. He appeared to be approximately seventy years old, with a shock of white hair and a beard that could only be described as "distinguished."

More unusually, he was talking to a goat.

"No, you don't understand," the man was saying, with the patient tone of someone explaining a complex concept. "The philosophical implications are quite significant. If we accept the premise that consciousness is a product of neural activity, then—"

The goat bleated.

"A fair counterpoint, but consider this—"

"Excuse me?"

The man looked up, not at all startled by Edwin's presence. His eyes were bright blue and disconcertingly perceptive.

"Ah! A fellow traveler on the road of life. Or, in this case, the road between the Henderson farm and the Carter property." He smiled warmly. "You must be Harold's grandson."

"Does everyone know about me now?"

"I know every faces around here except you. Also, your grandmother is quite vocal about her various projects, and you appear to be the current focus." The man stood and extended a hand. "Professor Cornelius Webb. Retired philosopher. Current goat conversationalist."

Edwin shook the hand, which was surprisingly firm. "Edwin Carter. Recovering city person. Why were you talking to a goat?"

"Why wouldn't I talk to a goat? Goats are excellent listeners. No judgment, no unsolicited advice, just thoughtful consideration of the points being presented." Professor Webb patted the goat affectionately. "This is Aristotle. He belongs to the Millers. Gets out of his pen occasionally to engage in Socratic dialogue."

"Socratic dialogue. With a goat."

"He's quite advanced for his species."

Aristotle the goat chewed something thoughtfully, as if considering this assessment.

Edwin found himself at a complete loss for how to respond. In his previous life, he would have made polite excuses and moved on. But this was Willowbrook, where normal seemed to be more of a suggestion than a rule.

"What philosophical topic were you discussing?" he heard himself ask.

Professor Webb beamed as if Edwin had just passed an important test. "The nature of consciousness! Specifically, whether subjective experience can be meaningfully communicated between beings of different cognitive architectures."

"And what does Aristotle think?"

"He's skeptical of reductionist approaches. Very traditional, in that sense. Prefers a more phenomenological framework." The professor's eyes twinkled. "But enough about goats. You're the young man who swore off love, aren't you? The one with the list of rules?"

"How do you know about my rules?"

"Martha talked to me today. She's concerned that you're being too rigid. Asked me to 'have a word' if I encountered you."

"Of course she did."

Professor Webb settled back onto his rock, gesturing for Edwin to join him. Aristotle the goat wandered a few feet away to graze, apparently satisfied that the philosophical portion of the afternoon was complete.

"I used to be like you, you know," the professor said. "After my first wife left me—ran off with a jazz musician, if you can believe it—I developed a comprehensive system of rules designed to protect myself from future emotional harm."

"Did it work?"

"Spectacularly. For about fifteen years." The professor smiled ruefully. "And then I met my second wife. She shattered every single rule within approximately three weeks of our meeting."

"How?"

"By being utterly herself. Uninterested in my systems, my protections, my carefully constructed defenses. She just... existed, gloriously and unapologetically, and I found myself incapable of looking away." He chuckled at the memory. "We were married for thirty-two years. She passed five years ago. I still talk to her sometimes, when Aristotle isn't available."

Edwin didn't know what to say. The story was touching, certainly, but it felt like everyone in this town was determined to undermine his resolution through heartwarming anecdotes.

"I appreciate the perspective," he said carefully, "but my situation is different. I've been hurt multiple times. There's a pattern."

"Of course there's a pattern. Patterns are how we make sense of chaos. But patterns can also be prisons." Professor Webb fixed him with those disconcertingly perceptive eyes. "The question isn't whether you've been hurt before. The question is whether you're willing to be surprised."

"Surprised?"

"By someone who doesn't fit the pattern. By a connection that breaks all your carefully constructed rules." The professor stood, brushing off his rumpled suit. "Love isn't something you can guard against, young man. It finds the cracks. The more walls you build, the more creative it becomes."

He began walking down the road, apparently done with the conversation. Aristotle the goat followed, bleating something that might have been a farewell.

"Wait—" Edwin called. "Where are you going?"

"Home. It's almost dinner time, and my second wife—well, she's gone now, but I still cook for two. Habit." Professor Webb waved without looking back. "Good luck with Friday's dinner. And remember: sometimes the strangest connections are the most valuable."

He disappeared around a bend in the road, goat in tow, leaving Edwin standing alone with far too many thoughts.

The conversation had been surreal. The man had been eccentric. The goat had been... a goat.

And yet, something about the professor's words had lodged itself in Edwin's mind.

*Sometimes the strangest connections are the most valuable.*

He thought about Jake, who had become a friend through the unlikely medium of dog attacks and pie disasters. About Mrs. Patterson and Dolores and Ernie at the general store—people he barely knew a month ago who now felt like fixtures of his life.

Maybe connections didn't have to be romantic to be meaningful.

Maybe that was the lesson he was supposed to learn.

Edwin resumed walking, his thoughts churning. The sun was lower now, painting the fields in shades of gold that no city sunset could match. Somewhere ahead, the Carter farmhouse was waiting with dinner and warmth and his grandparents' endless, well-meaning interference.

It was a good life, he realized. Even with the heartbreak that had brought him here. Even with the rules he'd constructed to protect himself.

It was a genuinely good life.

---

He was almost home when it happened.

The road curved around a particularly large oak tree, obscuring the view ahead. Edwin was walking at his usual pace, still processing the philosophical goat encounter, when someone came around the curve from the other direction.

They collided.

Not dramatically—not like in movies where people tumble to the ground and end up tangled together. Just a simple, awkward bump of shoulders, the kind that happens when two people are equally lost in thought.

"Oh—sorry—"

Edwin stepped back, automatic apology already forming.

And then he saw her.

She was about his age, maybe a year or two younger. Dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. Clothes that suggested farm work—jeans, a worn t-shirt, dirt on her shoes. No makeup, no jewelry, nothing that screamed for attention.

But her eyes.

Her eyes were extraordinary.

They were dark brown, almost black, and they held a depth that made Edwin's breath catch. There was something in them—wariness, yes, but also intelligence. Humor. And beneath it all, a kind of sadness that he recognized because he'd seen it in his own mirror.

For a single, suspended moment, they stared at each other.

Edwin opened his mouth to speak—to introduce himself, to apologize again, to say something, *anything*—

But she was faster.

Her expression shifted, closing off like a door swinging shut. She stepped around him without a word, without a nod, without the slightest acknowledgment that the moment had meant anything at all.

And then she was gone, walking quickly in the opposite direction.

Edwin stood frozen, watching her retreat.

That had been Kim Su Han. It had to be. The mysterious neighbor, the girl who avoided dinners, the daughter who was "dealing with some stuff."

They had finally met.

Sort of.

If you could call a wordless collision followed by an immediate escape "meeting."

He wanted to run after her. To explain that he wasn't a threat, that he understood wanting to be left alone, that he had rules too and wasn't looking for anything complicated.

But she was already far down the road, and something about the set of her shoulders said she wouldn't welcome pursuit.

So Edwin stood there, feeling foolish and confused and—despite everything—intrigued.

She had looked at him. Just for a second, but she had *looked*.

And for that second, he could have sworn he saw recognition. Not of him specifically, but of something in him. A kinship. A shared understanding.

Or maybe he was imagining it. Maybe she looked at everyone that way before running from them. Maybe Jake Henderson had received the same brief, intense stare before she'd fled from him.

It didn't matter. Shouldn't matter. He wasn't interested in romance, in connection, in anything that could lead to another broken heart.

He had rules.

But as he resumed walking toward home, Edwin found himself glancing back over his shoulder.

Just once.

Just to see if maybe, possibly, she had done the same.

She hadn't. The road was empty, and she was gone.

---

Dinner that evening was roast chicken with all the trimmings.

Martha had outdone herself, as if sensing that Edwin needed comfort food and distraction. Harold was on his best behavior, probably trying to make up for the morning's plumbing disaster. And the conversation flowed with the easy warmth of family who genuinely enjoyed each other's company.

"Two more days until the dinner," Martha said casually, as if the information wasn't loaded with significance.

"I'm aware."

"Sun-hee called again. She's very excited. Said she's making something called bibimbap—Korean rice bowl thing. Very elaborate."

"That's nice."

"Kimsoo helped with the planning, apparently. She's determined to make it this time."

Edwin's fork paused halfway to his mouth. "She helped plan the menu?"

"That's what Sun-hee said. Seemed to think it was a good sign." Martha's expression was carefully innocent. "Of course, we're not reading anything into it."

"Of course not."

"Just noting the facts."

"Just the facts."

Harold coughed in a way that sounded suspiciously like suppressed laughter.

Edwin considered telling them about the encounter on the road. The collision. The moment. The way she'd looked at him before looking away.

But something stopped him. It felt private, somehow. A secret he wasn't ready to share, even with people he trusted.

"I met someone interesting on the way home," he said instead. "Professor Cornelius Webb. He was having a philosophical discussion with a goat."

This was apparently enough to derail any further Kim-related conversation. Harold launched into a detailed history of Professor Webb's eccentricities, which included a brief stint as a competitive ballroom dancer, a failed attempt to teach a crow to play chess, and an ongoing project to write a comprehensive encyclopedia of local mushrooms.

"He's brilliant, though," Harold concluded. "Taught at some fancy university before he retired. Now he just wanders around talking to animals and offering unsolicited wisdom."

"He offered me some," Edwin admitted.

"Did you take it?"

"I'm... considering it."

Martha and Harold exchanged one of their wordless looks. Edwin pretended not to notice.

"Well," Martha said, standing to clear the dishes, "Friday will be here soon enough. We should all get plenty of rest."

"It's just dinner."

"Of course it is. Just dinner. With neighbors. Completely unremarkable."

She disappeared into the kitchen before Edwin could respond.

Harold leaned over conspiratorially. "She's been planning her outfit for three days."

"For a casual dinner?"

"Your grandmother doesn't believe in casual. Every occasion is an occasion." Harold grinned. "You might want to think about what you're wearing too."

"I'm wearing clothes. That should be sufficient."

"Clothes that are clean? Pressed? Flattering to your general appearance?"

"Grandpa..."

"Just a suggestion." Harold patted his shoulder and rose from the table. "Good night, Edwin. Sweet dreams."

Edwin sat alone in the dining room, surrounded by the remnants of dinner and the lingering warmth of family.

Two days until Friday.

Two days until he sat at a table with Kim Su Han and tried to pretend that their wordless encounter hadn't meant anything.

He wasn't looking forward to it.

He also, if he was being honest, couldn't stop thinking about it.

---

Thursday was dedicated to what Martha called "pre-dinner preparation" and what Edwin would later describe as "systematic torture."

It began with the chickens.

"The coop needs cleaning," Martha announced at breakfast. "Thoroughly. The Kims might want a tour of the property, and I won't have guests seeing a dirty chicken coop."

"Are the Kims particularly interested in chicken coops?"

"Everyone is interested in chicken coops when they're clean. It's a sign of good household management."

Edwin spent the morning shoveling, scraping, and questioning every life choice that had led him to this moment. Henrietta supervised with her customary disapproval, occasionally pecking at his ankles as if to point out spots he'd missed.

"I'm doing my best," he told her.

She responded by depositing fresh evidence of exactly what he was cleaning up.

"I'm starting to take this personally."

Henrietta had no comment.

The afternoon brought additional tasks: mowing the lawn, trimming the hedges, sweeping the porch, and engaging in what Harold called a "light touch-up" of the fence that had been concerning Frank the plumber.

"Just straightening," Harold promised. "No tools involved."

"Then why do you have a hammer?"

"For moral support."

The fence, miraculously, emerged from Harold's attentions in roughly the same condition it had started. Edwin chose to count this as a victory.

By evening, the Carter property looked like a magazine spread for rustic country living. Every surface had been cleaned, every plant had been pruned, and even Bartholomew seemed to have received some kind of grooming treatment that made his feathers gleam with aggressive pride.

"Perfect," Martha declared, surveying her domain. "Tomorrow, we impress."

"I thought this was just a casual dinner between neighbors."

"It is. A casual dinner where everything must be perfect."

Edwin didn't bother arguing. He retreated to his room, where he found that his grandmother had somehow laid out clothes for the next evening—a button-down shirt he didn't remember owning, pressed slacks, and a note that read: *"Just a suggestion. Love, Grandma."*

He laughed despite himself.

His grandparents weren't subtle. They weren't even trying to be subtle. They had decided that Kim Su Han was important, and nothing Edwin said would convince them otherwise.

Maybe they were right.

Or maybe Friday would be just another dinner, another empty chair, another mystery that refused to be solved.

Either way, he was tired of worrying about it.

Edwin set the clothes aside, pulled out the library book about Willowbrook County history, and read until his eyes grew heavy.

Tomorrow would come when it came.

And when it did, he would face whatever happened with as much grace as he could muster.

Which, admittedly, might not be much.

But it would have to be enough.

---

That night, Edwin dreamed.

He was walking down the road again, the same road where he'd encountered Professor Webb and his philosophical goat, the same road where he'd collided with Kim Su Han.

In the dream, she was there.

Waiting for him by the oak tree, her dark eyes watching as he approached.

"You're afraid," she said. Not accusing. Just observing.

"So are you," he replied.

She smiled—a real smile, the first he'd seen from her—and it transformed her entire face. Made her beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with features and everything to do with the light behind her eyes.

"Maybe we should be afraid together," she said.

And then Bartholomew crowed, and Edwin woke up, and the dream dissolved like morning mist.

He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding for reasons he couldn't quite explain.

It was just a dream.

It didn't mean anything.

But he couldn't shake the feeling that it meant everything.

---

**End of Chapter 5**

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