Sarah fiddled with sugar packets, keys, the newly blunt ends of her hair.

Leda said, I’m so sorry, Mom.

Sarah reached for Leda’s hand, the edge of her sweater, her face.

We’ll look back on this time as transformative, Sarah said. We’ll come to understand just how much we’ve learned.

The morning after the haircut Leda was gone and so was Sarah’s cash and favorite pair of emerald studs.

“Congratulations, Arman. I haven’t said that yet, have I?”

“No, you haven’t.”

“Congratulations. You’re a father.”

“It still just feels…”

“Unreal?”

“Yeah.”

“It’ll probably feel like that for a very long time.” The rusted metal handle of the screen door was growing warm in her hand. She finally gave it a push.

four

SUNDAY AFTERNOON

She was alone in an overpriced, mold- infested Mexican hotel. Her stomach flipped. It was all arranged; she was going north. Her chest and back were soaking wet. She sat up, sneezing, and realized with dead certainty that she was not in Mexico. She wasn’t seeing Leda. There was heat, yes, but it was the inland heat of an East Coast farmhouse bedroom. She tentatively touched the bridge of her nose. It felt as if raising her eyebrows might cause the wound to open and bleed. When she closed her eyes, she saw the gun, the creek, the baby; Arman in the car.

The mild clatter and raised voices coming from the kitchen suggested morning had come and gone. By the time she made it downstairs, no one was there besides Matthew. She went to kiss him, but he looked off to the side while he returned the kiss, as if he were on to the next thing. She had a flash of both of them naked, right there in the empty kitchen.

“I have directions to the horror-movie lake.” He pointed out the coffee, with more than a touch of impatience. “Let’s go. Let’s get in the water.”

She slathered a baguette with butter. “Is everyone already there?”

“Karim, Heather, and her kids are already on their way back to the city.”

“Thank God.”

“What was so wrong with them?”

“Nothing.” Sarah headed out of the kitchen and up the stairs again to change. She called out, “I can still be happy they’re gone.”

“IT’S FUNNY,” he said, turning the key in the ignition.

“What is?”

“You seem hell-bent on not wanting other people around, other conversation, nothing obstructing time with Kiki, but … why? I’d think you’d be grateful for the distraction.” He gripped the steering wheel more tightly. “You lied to her right out of the gate.”

“You know I’m sorry.”

He rolled down all the windows. “And because I didn’t contradict you—how could I?—I’m a liar, too.”

“You’re not a liar. Can we please turn on the air-conditioning?”

“How about we have some actual weather?”