On her way there she’d walked quickly, barely noticing her surroundings, but on the way back, she took it slow. When she reached the canal, she stood on the bridge, alone under the scant moon and glaring streetlights, fearful of who might be out at this hour, but also marveling at how the stench from the polluted canal was absent. The air smelled so clean. On the other side of the bridge stood a lush patch of sunflowers. She always wondered who tended such an impressive garden, one that grew more elaborate each year, seemingly left alone to flourish. She thought, as she always did, how Leda had loved this bridge and this garden and how she—in a parallel universe or maybe even in this one—would enjoy being with Sarah there, right then. She thought of how they both loved small pockets of wonder, sought beauty in rough places. Leda had berated her for pointing out their similarities, but it had been so long, Sarah realized, since anyone else had done so. Then she crossed the bridge and looked more closely at the garden and—preposterously—saw a young junkie passed out in the sunflowers, streetlight shining brightly on her acne-scattered face. Dyed-green hair, nose pierced, cheek pierced, eyebrow pierced, and there Sarah was, seized with such revulsion that she turned away and ran onto the bridge, gripping the railing and dry heaving as she had done during all of her pregnancies, trying and failing for some kind of release into the foul water below.

Dear Caroline, I’m embarrassed it’s taken me this long to thank you for our lunch.

When she walked up the hill and through the familiar pattern of streets, she realized dawn was breaking. She pictured the lake upstate and wondered when it would freeze. She still wondered what had happened to the woman who’d flopped around in the shallows. For a while she’d felt strangely guilty for not getting involved that day. It was as if, in her imagination, that woman had become Leda and Sarah had abdicated her clear responsibility to get her out of the water, that demeaning situation. But at some point Sarah had started telling herself another story. In this version, the woman at the lake was an excellent swimmer. She was faking it. She was playing him for reasons only she could understand.

Dear Caroline, I’ve been thinking it over.

Dear Caroline, You may be right.

Sarah took her phone from her back pocket.

Two months ago, the young man at the Apple store had plugged in her new phone. She’d seen all her contacts for Leda and immediately started weeping. The young man at the Apple store had kindly looked away. Then he’d asked for her credit card.

She didn’t dial Leda’s old numbers.