This small room in the back of the house was square, protruding from the rear of the building like a snub nose, with windows that overlooked the shore. This table stood on one leg, and the chairs surrounding it were all different. Lucas had a fine velvet seat with little pads riveted along the curved back. His father sat on a stool, and his mother had a narrow, high-backed chair with a shallow seat. Taciturn, soft-spoken, gentle, they murmured to each other and to him in voices that were barely audible over the rush of the waves. They ate all their meals in the cramped back room of the house to spare the pristine dining room, which, as far as Lucas could remember, had been exclusively reserved for the purpose of celebrating his birthday. For the remainder of the year, the dining room was merely another room his parents had to keep clean and in good order, almost as if it were possible he might surprise them by having a birthday at any time. Occasionally, he would look in at the door of the dining room to see the pale reflection of the dim light of day glistening against the stacked edges of the plates in the porcelain cabinet and warming the polished wood of the long tabletop.

After breakfast, Lucas usually would sit for a little while in the parlor, perhaps still gazing at the empty space where the piano used to be, wondering what had been wrong with it, waiting for his mother’s sister, Aunt Inger, to come by with her own children and see him safely to school. However, it was the winter holiday now, and so Lucas was at liberty to do whatever he liked, provided he didn’t leave the radius of his parents’ supervision.

“I’m taking Smokey down to the beach,” he told his mother. She turned her thin face to him, smiling, her red-rimmed eyes full of love.

“Stay within sight of the house,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I will,” he said.

When he entered the kitchen, Smokey was lying in his usual spot, not far from the stove. He was what father called a good-sized dog, but lean, who rose with a little difficulty when Lucas called to him. They left the house, the yard, and walked down to the shore.

The day was misty but not too cold. Looking back, Lucas could see his mother’s figure in the window of her bedroom upstairs. Down below, his father stood watching from the kitchen window. The beach was nearly empty, and there was no one nearby. Lucas spent the morning tossing stones and sticks that Smokey would eventually retrieve, dropping them at his feet, then looking around a moment before raising his head, searching blearily until he found the boy’s eyes, then lowering his head again.