She'd been on an invisible leash for months now, soon as Malby had rolled up in her finally repaired and fully paid off pick-up. It'd been a small miracle feeling, a piece of home suddenly transported to her front porch. In a world where magic is real, this was its own sort of magic. She's so young when she throws herself into his arms and he gives her a good spin before complaining about the extra inch she's gained. Another bit of magic, time and space twisting 'round the moment.

Her uncle has an easy, drawling sort of way, but his eyes are always watching and he's the most suspicious man she's ever known. He's also a workaholic forced on an extended vacation, so of course he snoops about. Ashdown keeps him occupied more than she'd like, missing people and found bodies and strange violence. Too many cemeteries. But he'd never think magic, so maybe the alarming but also realistic news does her a favor, keeping that keen focus on things that don't have to be magic. Even if they are.

Bitterberry uses his car as a portapotty and takes exception to all of his hats. The jay steals from him shamelessly. Eventually, somehow, they come to an accord while she's at work. A truce is bought with a steady supply of cherries and cheap little rings out of a vending machine. You've got a helluva little terror, here, Meri. He likes me better than Thompson, though, right?

Malby asks about Taym only every once in while, which means he'd like to ask constantly but he's rationing it out to avoid a Rebellion. He likes Taym, though, despite her liking him too and everything her taste in men has said up til now. He says they should all three go on a fishing trip while he's here and she very firmly puts her foot down. America likes to keep herself and relationships in little boxes. These two weren't meant to be mixed anytime soon, even if her uncle took the other man out for drinks a few times, told him the less flattering stories and continued the casual interrogation that had begun at their first meeting.

Taym was good at avoiding answering questions, at picking the one that'd cut off any others. He could handle her uncle she was pretty sure. She sees him less and texts him more, reaching out again and again for the steady line of his understanding, his thoughtful way of moving through the world and quiet humor.

America visits the Other Place when she can, but never for more than hour and only once or twice a week, now. Easing into Mr. Bitterberry as he takes flight is the most natural thing, it's like breathing in the air, heavy with rain. Magic like breathing.

She keeps Malby away from the beach, away from Sunny, and sometimes she has to ask herself why? Why keep him from the amazing, world changing, revelation of magic and other worlds? It was a selfish thing, and maybe it was for his own good, but that wasn't the only motivation. Maybe it was those boxes again, maybe Malby didn't belong here and maybe she didn't want him to.

Eventually, as the weeks pass and the summer heats up while the Other Place enters a deep sort of cold, America is forced to ask the same if herself. Did she belong here? Really and truly belong in this strange little town. Beyond the tenuous ties of a girl long dead, was this town just as much hers?

There was, of course, only one way to see how fixed she was to the place. Malby was delighted, of course. A chance to lure the wayward niece back into the family bosom, remind her of every unique thing to love in the South, remind her she has family that misses and adores her. Show the girl that somethings have changed, too. That home is better, now. That her father was the one waiting, this time.

Magic is real, and maybe there's a dozen, a hundred, different sorts around the world. But her own belongs to Ashdown. Bitterberry is out of her reach within a day. Floating things experimentally, she witnesses the ability weaken and disappear altogether. There are no more doors of strange, Other sensations.

It could be an escape of sorts, but the mounting sense of loss eventually has her pulling over, an hour from home, and texting people in a panic, people who knew.

Magic is real right? The other place is real?

There's explanations and it's a relief, but even days later she has moments where there's a quiet quaking of reality. A reminder that even America Jones, in all her acceptance of the strange and unnatural, could find herself very suddenly questioning her own sanity.

It makes the visit home fit oddly at times, like she's the wrong America Jones for this place full of familiar comforts. It's nice though, in a lot of ways. She has a second birthday and spends long days in Florida, basking in storm and sunshine and the enthusiastic affection of family. She talks to Pa, and maybe that part's not nice. Not bad either, but it's the treating of a wound abruptly reopened by the realization that her leaving had led to him finally, finely staying. And maybe it was his way of waiting, of trying to make up for the years of going away and away again, but it didn't mean a thing if he couldn't bring himself to tell her that.

It wasn't nice, but it was needed. Nothing was fixed, of course, but they spoke more in a couple weeks than they had in years. She asked about her mom and he started answering, describing a woman different from the girl who lived up north and took pictures of everything but people. She wonders if her mom kept those little boxes too. Ashdown's Leanne and the intimidating New Girl and the Jones boys' Great and Tragic Love.

In the end it isn't much of a question though. Within a week she's asking Taym to look over the listings. She's going back up. She's packing up her life here and going on to figure out what sort of life she can build in Ashdown. She misses magic. She misses the people. She likes her boxes, and the one belonging to America Jones, freewheeling daughter of Leanne and other world adventurer...that's the one she's wants to reach into most.

Though god only knows what she'll pull out.