She wasn’t wearing a bathing suit, because she wasn’t really going swimming. She was just splashing around, and that was okay with her. The hem of her dress was already wet and clinging to her thighs. That was okay too. It would dry when she got out.

She kept her eyes fixed on the water. It was very clear. She could see all the way to the bottom and the small little fish darting away from her feet.

“This is fun,” she told Angela.

“Don’t go too deep.”

“I know that.”

“Don’t slip.”

“I know, Angela! I’m not a baby.”

On the rippling surface of the canal, she saw her reflection grinning up at her. And then she saw her father’s reflection looming next to hers. His shadow fell over her.

“Turn around,” Angela said quickly.

María was already turning when the rock her father was swinging struck her in the side of the head and sent her crashing into the cold water.

Jack

1

Close to an hour later, pushing four in the morning, the storm finally seemed to show signs of moving on. The rain still fell in relentless droves against the corrugated iron roof, but the wind and thunder had eased off, and it no longer felt as though the cabin might be torn from its foundation and tossed to Kansas.

Elizaveta and I sat in silence, trying not to fall asleep. I was lost in half-lucid thoughts of Nitro, of his blusterous personality, his machismo, how I despised yet respected him, respected not only his ability to remain cool under pressure, to lead rather than be led, but also his discipline, the work he obviously put into keeping fit, which, oddly, made his death even more tragic. In my half-lucidity I drew a comparison between a neglected yard shriveling up in a drought to a lovingly tended garden suffering the same fate. Because all those years spent lifting weights and watching what he ate…for what? He would never lift weights or eat anything again. All his hard work ceased to mean anything in the second or two it took a maniac to slit his throat open. It all seemed so senseless.