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Max didn’t notice the camper van at first; he was too busy staring down the ominous road sign pitched into the off-route branching from the highway. The sign was added, it seemed, not by whoever placed yields and the-next-town-is-blank-kilometres-away signs, but by someone else—a thin campground strip of pine rather than yellow metal. A carved image of a moose roamed the top of the sign. Its eyes were painted black. Max thought it grim, unsure who would place such a thing, let alone across from the Whale Pavilion. He read and reread the bottom, almost unconsciously: Max licked his ice