Licia was checking something on the camera. A glimpse of a lip, half-bitten. In the half dark I caught sight of a gas cooker on gimbals and a small porthole. I heard Licia’s fingers depressing buttons, changing settings. Then she turned the camera toward herself, placed it with care on a surface in front of her. A wooden chart table, with raised edges to prevent objects from falling.

A boat cabin. Licia in a plain gray shift dress.

She took a step away from the camera. From a shelf she took a cloth belt. She looped the belt around her waist and tied it easily at one side.

She reached across for a black-strapped harness that lay on the map table, fit it over her shoulders. She reached for the camera. For a moment her fingers obscured the lens. The camera thunked softly into place on the harness. When her hand cleared the frame it showed Licia’s point of view.

A queasy feeling in the back of my throat.

Licia turned, opened the hatch, climbed the three steps out onto the deck, barefoot. The water by the floating dock was mirror-flat, the sunlight harsh and unforgiving. There were her shoes, neatly placed in the bow beside two pairs of men’s shoes. Near the stern stood two cracked leather travel bags and a rusted blue box.

I recognized that box. Maria Krikk had hidden it from the Andersen brothers on Garden Island that day. Surely Licia could not know its significance?

Licia’s attention was caught by something else. On the next floating dock, a little boy was running barefoot and half-naked toward a large dog that was pacing up and down, tongue out, staring into the water. The dog wore an orange life jacket. The boy wore only shorts. On other boats people were adjusting fender ropes, setting chart plotters, lowering motors into the dark water of the fjord. They did not see the boy as he ran toward the dog.

No one but Licia was watching the boy. The camera panned left and right, as if Licia were scanning for his parents. And there they were, tiny in the frame, at the wire-mesh gate near the road, arguing in the summer heat. They had not seen their son as he ran down the concrete pontoon toward the water.

For a moment I could hope that everything was all right. That this was the Licia Curtis I knew, that this was a video of a girl who would save a child from drowning. True heroism. My Licia.

Somewhere out of sight a hydraulic winch rattled and whined.

An ignition chirped.

An engine turned twice, then died.

The camera swung toward the boy and the dog. The dog dropped clumsily into the water, began to swim out into the fjord, buoyed by the orange life jacket. Still the small boy ran toward him.

I could hear Licia’s breath catch.