“She had—has—a lot of connections. Her parents are good friends with the guvnah and all that.” Nick affected his mother-in-law’s pattern of speech, the way in which she spoke of her intimate relationship with the governor of Georgia. “Eliza contacted people at home. They hired lawyers, bigwigs—hell, anyone to get me out of the mess I was in. They sent down a lawyer.”

“And in all this . . . mess, you never thought to contact me?”

“Amy . . .” He reached across the fallen tree they sat on; somehow she’d slipped to the end of the log, farther away. His hand found empty space and his fingers closed in on his palm. He sighed and looked down at the moss growing in the split cracks of the rotting wood.

“You’re the only one I thought about contacting. It worked like this: I was allowed one phone call to the American Embassy, which then contacted my mother. Eliza called her parents and they sent a native Costa Rican, who was an American lawyer, to be responsible for all my legal stuff and communication. Mr. Rivera, the student advisor, told the University of the ‘situation.’ Then he returned home and legal assistance was . . . secured. I asked this lawyer—God, what in the hell was his name?” Nick closed his eyes. “Mr. Miguel Carreira—I couldn’t even pronounce his name, but he was friendly with the locals, knew his way around. He said he couldn’t reach you at your dorm. He said they even tried your house. He was supposed to send you a telegram right away, with a phone number. God, what I would’ve given for e-mail, cell phones—anything but a telegram.”

“I didn’t . . . get one.” Amy closed her eyes.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. Finish the story. Finish.”

“I sent another, then another.”

“No, not the telegrams. What happened to you?”

“It took a full year, a little longer, to prove it wasn’t my fault—vehicular homicide, don’t ya know?”

“You were in jail for an entire year?”

“Yes.” This time when he reached to touch her, he found her. She buried her head in his chest and he wound his fingers in her hair, pulled her closer. There were so many things he wanted to say to her. So many. In his sleepless nights he’d practiced entire speeches.

She lifted her head and looked at him, her eyes wet. “Was it horrible . . . just horrible?”

The sun began its descent below the oak and moss-rimmed horizon; the others would be waiting for them on the beach. But he wasn’t done telling her the story and nothing seemed of more importance than this—than telling Amy.