He doesn’t meet me halfway. No. He’s making me commit. But then, he always did. Jack understood that I wanted to please. His mission was to make me take a stand—which, of course, I did when Elizabeth couldn’t be found. Unfortunately, my stand wasn’t compatible with his.

His hands are under the tails of a tee, tucked in the pockets of his shorts. Arms, legs, and feet are all bare, all long and well-formed. This is not memory. This is fact.

I pass the firepit, which is a murky saucer in a field of dim sand. When I’m just close enough, I stop. You called? I might have quipped had our recent history not been so taut, but my insides are in a knot. I have no idea what to expect.

Another throwback? He is chewing on the corner of his mouth. Good. So I’m not the only one feeling weird. That was one of the things we used to talk about all the time—feeling weird in one’s own home—because if I had family issues, Jack’s were worse. I’d seen firsthand his attempts to get his parents’ attention. But his father was forever distracted by one intellectual cause or another. And his mother? Self-absorbed. Her disappearance would have poured salt on the wound of being her son, for sure. For sure, her disappearance would have exaggerated his long-running sense of abandonment.

Realizing that, I feel the urge to fill the awkward silence with consoling words, even to touch his arm. But I’m afraid to reach out lest I be bitten. Like dog, like man.

Speaking of which, I ask, “Where’s your dog?”

“Sleeping. Where’s your daughter?”

“Same.”

A tiny wave breaks, rolling our way in a whisper meant as backdrop alone, because we’re the main attraction, Jack Sab and me. I’ve broken the silence by speaking first, and I can easily make other conversation. Middle children are practiced at lessening awkward moments, and here in my hometown I’m the middle child. But I’ve been away for a long time, been a different person for that long time. And I didn’t call this meeting.

So I wrap my arms around my middle, clutching the folds of the sweatshirt, and wait.

Finally he says, “I overstepped with her. Did I screw up?”

The words are right, even if the tone isn’t exactly apologetic. But then, I don’t know how to be with him, either.

“No,” I say, grateful for the statement regardless. “I’ll just tell her it won’t work.”

“It will on my end. I can always use help.”

“We’re only here a week. Is it worth training her for that little?”