All evening, I felt electrified, my nerves raw. I cut my finger chopping vegetables for dinner. I put my finger in my mouth and the taste of the blood reminded me of rocks pulled out of the sea. I was transported to a time when my young self—five? six?—lifted rocks into the sunlight, smooth or slick with green growing things, and I tasted the salt and greenness. The act of recollection flooded me with pleasure. The sorting and cataloging of those old thoughts, collecting again, recollecting. Rocks, saltwater, the starburst of light on the surface of the water.

But then the door from the living room opened suddenly, and I knocked over a glass of water.

“What’s wrong with you?” Lucas said.

“I cut myself.” I held up my finger.

“I’ll get a bandage.”

He carefully wrapped a too-big Band-Aid around my finger and then mopped up the spilled water.

Cole entered the room, and my chest tightened and relaxed and tightened again, a bird trying out its wings. He looked at us, the spilled water, and the cut finger.

“Is everything okay?” he asked.

“It’s fine,” Lucas said. “Just Lydia being Lydia.”

“Hello, hello!” Eddie didn’t bother to knock, just stuck his head inside the kitchen door. Behind him, his wife, Kim, was holding a jean jacket closed at her throat, though the night wasn’t cold. I beckoned them in and dried my hands on a dishcloth.

“Hi,” I said. “You’re here. I didn’t think you were really going to—”

“We wanted to come,” Kim said. I was surprised that Kim had come along, and I tried to read her face. Was she just looking for a chance to observe Eddie and me together? But no, her expression was inquisitive but not suspicious as she glanced around the kitchen. Islanders were innately wary of newcomers, and Cole had burst so suddenly into our lives, I didn’t blame her for being curious.

“I haven’t been over here since—” Eddie broke off.

Since when? I wondered. Since Eddie and some other kids from middle school came over to do yard work, a way to offer condolences when my father died? I had watched from an upstairs window while they raked leaves into piles, too scared, too sad, too shy to go down.

“Where is he?” Eddie said.

“Cole? He’s in the living room, but please don’t—”

Eddie walked through the swinging door, with Kim scurrying behind. Cole was looking through the New Yorker. Lucas was bent over the table in the corner where he kept material for making elaborate little faux-insects for fishing. Cole put down his magazine and looked at Eddie in a friendly way.

“This is Eddie,” I said. “And Kim. Sit down, you guys.”

“I will do that, Lydia. Thank you so much,” Eddie said. He turned to Cole. “So I hear you’ve been reincarnated from these guys’ dead brother.”