Grandma did not call the police that night. She handed my father a folded letter from her attorney revoking every authority he held, and told Brody the silver would be returned by New Year’s or the footage would go to the sheriff. It was returned in four days. Then she turned to the room, smiled like nothing in the world had happened, and asked whether anyone had seen her strong helper. At 7:52 p.m., twenty-two minutes late, Theo stood on a chair, gripped the beast with both hands, and flipped it. The tree lit up from floor to ceiling. The whole lodge applauded him, and he bowed twice.

In January, Grandma placed the lodge in a trust. I am the trustee, and Theo is named after me. My parents came to Easter dinner and sat quietly at the far end of the table, and nobody made them leave. Theo was the very last guest to leave that Christmas Eve, asleep on Grandma’s lap by the fire. On the drive home, weeks later, he told me he wasn’t bad after all. I told him he never was. Some doors close on you because of who you are. Others close because of what you might see. Grandma taught us both that the people worth keeping will always open them again.