“Let’s name him,” I said.

“Angelo,” Ros declared, and it was so.

At some point we started noticing the frogs. Here was a tiny pewter one sharing the ledge with Angelo; here was a pair of brass lamps in the shape of two elongated frogs with twisted legs; here were frog-patterned hand towels in the bathroom, and frog salt-and-pepper shakers on the table, a frog pattern on Ros’s blanket turned robe. By the time Touchstone had ended his phone call, we’d christened the cabin the Lily Pad. Who cared about the dampness? It was ours for the summer, and it was perfect. It may not have been an actual fairy tale, but it was close enough.

We left our stuff in the car, texted our parents we’d made it, and walked down to the water, a five-minute trek that was slightly steeper than expected and hot, exposed to the sun. The grassy hill gave way to a sandy, flat beach that was cupped in the palm of the woods, and we stood marveling for a moment, our arms around one another’s shoulders. Straight ahead, the far side of the river met the road and then turned quickly into forest. To our right, an old bridge spanned the river, once copper but now weathered the perfect teal green—we could walk that bridge to cross into town, according to Touchstone. To our left, the river continued and then bent, disappearing behind a rise in the land. Ros pulled off their heavy lace-ups and yanked off their mismatched socks—one pea-green ankle sock, one thicker hiking sock, a sartorial choice I simply could not support no matter how much I loved them—and waded into the water. The river lapped at their ankles, and I nearly felt the coolness on my own feet, delicious, chilling.

“Can we swim here?” I half spoke, half called, half to Touchstone, half to Ros, who continued to walk deeper into the water. “Ros?”

The water had risen over their ankles by now, their unshaven calves, and then their spiky knees, where it darkened the gray of their cutoffs. I thought maybe they’d stop there—I yelled their name, but they just kept walking—but the water was up to their ribs now, soaking the baggy forest-green sweater vest they’d found in the men’s department of our thrift store, cashmere for ten bucks, with a slight Mr. Rogers vibe that Ros made cool, though the vest itself was no doubt ruined now with river water—and then the water was up around their ears and their unruly, unwashed hair, and then they were gone, swallowed whole by the water.