The boat slapped over the wake of a pontoon boat and the red wine splashed onto Amy’s jeans.

Eliza giggled. “That’s why we drink white instead of red on the boat.”

“Good thinking.” Amy smiled at Eliza, feeling they’d found common ground—sinking, but common.

Eliza’s straight hair flew around her face in a halo of caramel gold. Her skin was free of makeup and her clear blue eyes held no malice. They were, if anything, empty and waiting for approval: a child looking for a compliment.

The wind picked up, and the kids jumped the wake of the boat. Amy waved at Jack and he gave her a thumbs-up. She looked at Molly, her hair splayed around her face, her legs in a wide squat behind Alex, her head back in laughter. The Jet Ski came sideways over the wake and leaned precariously; Molly sailed off the back—a beautiful raven in flight. She landed sideways in the water as the Jet Ski turned in on itself. Alex shut the motor off when Molly’s body went underwater with a sickening thud as some part of her made contact with the Jet Ski. She popped to the surface; her head lolled back on the headrest of the life jacket.

Amy didn’t react; she sat on the seat at the back of the boat with her wine in hand, and watched Molly, who looked so peaceful resting on her back, rocking to the motion of the water. Before the next millisecond came and realization set in, Amy actually smiled at her daughter bobbing in the water, admiring her beauty and poise. Alex, Jack and Lisbeth on Jet Skis resembled hazy images of people in the background of a snapshot.

Nick shut off the boat and flew to the back, dove in the water before Amy even moved. As he pulled Molly to the side of the boat, Amy stood and screamed. Phil jumped in, pulled his daughter from Nick as they simultaneously reached the boat.

Molly shouted, “My arm! Dad, let go of my arm. It’s broken . . . or something. God, it hurts so bad.” Molly scrunched up her face.

Nick hoisted himself onto the back running board of the boat and lifted Molly under her arms. Phil pushed her from behind until she landed on the back of the boat. Amy saw Molly’s face—pain and tears were evident. Nausea rolled over Amy and she dropped her wine; the glass shattered on the fiberglass basin and no one noticed.

Nick sat down next to Molly. “I’m going to take your arm now.”

“No!” Molly’s voice was strangled, an animal’s wail.

“Don’t touch her.” Phil climbed onto the running board. “It’s broken.” He reached for Nick’s arm.

Nick did not look at or answer Phil. He grabbed Molly’s chin, lifted her face. “Look at me. I’m going to check your arm.”