The pool is on the roof of a hotel occupying what used to be a water purification plant when this city was still a town. The redesign is all about architects at play without enough supervision. Everyone walks mincingly up and down staircases made of clear glass. The slate tiles in the lobby are set ajar, at slight angles to each other.

“I am an abogado,” Seneca says. “These designers saw fun; I see lawsuits from all the late-night falls. Slightly drunken girls in high heels.”

The pool is a more interesting bit of whimsy. It runs the entire length of the building, is a single lane, and has one side made of thick, translucent glass.

“Oh my,” Cate says when they spot it as they come off the elevator. She goes into the ladies’ room to change. She’s childishly excited to get into this human fishbowl. When she comes out of the bathroom, Seneca has ordered them glasses of a popular red wine from Guadalajara. Incognito. They had it the night before, and Cate told her how much she liked it. Seneca doesn’t miss many beats.

“Go on, now,” Seneca flutters a hand urging Cate toward the pool.

“You won’t come in?”

“Alas, I do not swim. I will do a little work here.”

While Cate does laps so long she sometimes has to stop three-quarters of the way in disbelief that there can possibly be more water ahead, Seneca sits at a high table making phone calls. Her forehead rests in the palm of her hand as she talks, as though the conversations are burdens she bears. When Cate gets out of the water and is toweling off, Seneca puts her phone facedown on the table and smoothly redirects her attention.

“How do you know about this place?” Cate says. “If you’re not a swimmer.”

“I know some of the masons who worked on the crazy renovation. They are plain men and found the architects’ mischief hilarious. All the glass floors, the crazy tiles in the lobby, as though an earthquake has passed through. When in fact earthquakes do pass through here on their own, shuffling tectonic plates without any artistic intentions.” Then, upshifting her tone, “You had a very nice swim?”

In this single moment, Cate sees the position she occupies in Seneca’s maternal life. Her own children, a doctor and a lawyer, are deeply serious adults treating burn victims, representing indigent clients. The daughter has an autistic child. They have chests filled with the medals of responsibilities firmly met. Seneca doesn’t dismiss Cate as Cate has assumed until now. She sees her as a child who is still playing out her childhood, someone she can still spoil.