Quite clearly, as she reminisced, Ellen saw Sammy's trusting eyes looking up at Sean, within an hour of his arrival. Sean was already his father, mentor, and advocate. They were sitting on the cold garage floor while she watched, unseen, from the laundry room.

A bowl of canned sardines, a plate of hamburger, and a bowl of milk were spread out before Sammy. The seal, who must have weighed forty pounds, was sitting on Sean's lap as he looked up at Brody.

"Daddy, he's crying all the time. Look at his eyes." Sean's eyes were moist themselves.

"He misses his mother, probably."

"And he won't eat!"

"He's had a rough day, Sean. You wouldn't eat, either."

"He won't leave the bandage on!"

"Nature knows best." Brody's nose twitched. "What the hell?"

Sean rose, red-faced. "It wasn't his fault! He just hasn't learned yet."

Brody shuddered and looked down at his son. "You are covered, my friend, with seal turd."

"He couldn't go in the toilet!" Sean said defiantly.

The smell was awful. Ellen saw Brody studying his son. She could not tell if he was going to yell at the seal or at Sean.

But he was merely looking for a clean place on Sean's face. He bent suddenly and kissed the tip of his nose.

"Dump your clothes at the kitchen door, streak past your mother, and take a bath. I won't breathe a word."

Sean scurried off. Ellen saw Brody fill bucket and wash down the garage. Sammy floundered across the cement floor, drank him in with the moist brown eyes, and shook himself like a dog, spraying him with excrement. Marty shook his head and followed his son to the bath.

Like father, like son...

"That's a beautiful story," murmured Tiffany. She sighed. "And he hasn't changed at all."

Tiffany rose in a single youthful motion, as graceful as a dancer in Swan Lake. She moved to the wine bottle in its bucket by the sofa and picked it up. She started to fill Ellen's glass but froze as she looked into her face.

"Ellen! What's wrong?"

So it showed. Ellen drew in a shuddering breath and shook her head. "I don't know. Tiff, do you feel it? Is something off-kilter somehow?"

Tiffany shook her head, reached out a hand, and felt her brow. "You're as cold as ice."

Ellen began to shiver. She looked at the cuckoo clock Brody's father had brought back from Germany after VE day. It was five minutes to ten.

When had he left? Eight-thirty? Nine? How long could it possibly take him to tug a piece of log up the Amity Channel, anyway? One hour? Two?

She heard Tiffany's voice as if from a distance. "Ellen? What is it? You're so white!"