She started to relax. One night in late summer—or maybe early fall—they let Leda fall asleep under the table while in character—Good night, doggy—and she slept for three hours. Everything seemed heightened, their laughter more hysterical, as if Arman, Kiki, and Matthew were all daring Sarah to keep having fun. She knew they should have carried Leda up to bed, but the night was warm and Leda was sleeping, wasn’t she? What had they laughed so hard about? Which stories had they told?

SEPTEMBER IN THE CITY was still her favorite time. The hard shine of the afternoon began easing itself into something softer. The sweat of her schlep to the city and back had dried and disappeared. Families were making their way out of the park and toward the subway, the bus; some would go away for the weekend. Matthew ran a hand through the thin, graying hair she was grateful he still had. She wasn’t supposed to care about these things—after all they’d weathered, how could she possibly? But she did. She felt a stab of tenderness, but as she began to tell him about Caroline’s suggestion that she write a script about it all, she realized, too late, that she should have kept it to herself.

“Have you ever?” Matthew asked.

“Have I ever…?”

“Have you ever thought about making this your next film.”

“A film about Leda?”

“Yes, about Leda. About us. Have you ever thought about it? I know you’re not into autobiographical material, but I also know you recognize a good story. I know how your mind works.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah, I do. And I would not be surprised if you thought about writing something. Even if you never intended to make it. You’re a filmmaker. I don’t care if you never make another film, I will always think of you as one.”

“Well, that’s dumb.” She shrugged, tears brimming. “Or maybe just sad.”

Why had she told him? She had no interest in his open-mindedness or his sympathy or disgust at the idea of fictionalizing and likely sensationalizing Leda and their family, or—least of all—what she realized he was working up to right then: how maybe it was worth considering.

“I can’t believe you think I should do that,” she said. “I really can’t.”

And just like that, she didn’t care about the light or the season or the Wilderness camp or even Matthew. She turned from him and could, in that moment, have walked off forever. She remembered the beginning of their separation. With no daily need to maintain a display of hope, something about being alone had been distinctly not sad. With nothing between her body and the sensation of loss, she realized she’d been protecting him from precisely how dark she’d become. She was relieved to be free from that charade, from him.

“I’m not saying that; I’m not. Slow down. I’m just saying—”

“You’re just saying?”

“I’m just saying. Has it ever occurred to you that it might even help?”