Inside were items that map out a life as clearly as the lines on a hand: a sailor's jacket, a small brass compass dulled to a soft sheen, a photograph of Sam with an arm around Margaret, both smiling in a way that made Eli think of warm bread; a journal wrapped in oilcloth. The journal's entries began ordinary—ships, dockside conversations—but in the final pages the handwriting changed. The entries became smaller, hurried almost, as if written in whispers. There was a final passage that read: "They said there was a way to make the current take what we do not want to carry. I thought it might carry the rest of me. I did not know the river keeps a memory. It keeps names."
Before heading out, ensure you have: