Sarah kept quiet and found she didn’t mind how her sweaty thighs stuck to the car seat. She might as well try to get as hot and sticky as possible so she could enjoy the swim that much more. Matthew had—yet again—turned on the gypsy jazz, in spite (because?) of yesterday’s conversation, and she kept quiet about that, too, tapping out the manic beat as loudly as she could. Sun shone through pines and maples; they bumped along a dirt road.

“I heard you saw Arman.”

She nodded. “It was weird.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know, I couldn’t sleep, I was outside, it was the middle of the night.”

“He seems good.”

“I don’t know,” Sarah said.

“Not everyone is miserable.”

“Who said anyone is?”

“Not everyone is.”

“I’m not miserable.”

“I didn’t say you were. I said—”

“I’m not.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

When Leda was about two, she would begin a crying jag and Sarah would say, Sweetie, why are you crying? And Leda would say, I’m crying, and Sarah would again ask why and Leda would repeat, I’M CRYING.

Sarah put her bare feet up on the dashboard. “It’s a sunny, funny day.”

Matthew cracked a smile.

“Neither of us got shot two nights ago.”

“True,” he said. “I like your attitude.”

“I’m sorry I lied. I am. I’m really sorry. I just couldn’t handle it. But I can now.” She stuck her hand out the car window.

“Careful,” he warned.

“I’m going to tell them.”

“That’ll be interesting.”

With her fingers stretched apart, she felt the wind pass through. “It will.”