She reached out and rubbed his neck, made a sincere attempt at softening her tone. This coincided with a wave of what they referred to as beach exhaustion (Sarah’s overwhelming urge, upon arriving at any body of water, to fall asleep in the car). But she forced herself to snap out of it. As Matthew got out, she made sure she did, too. The truck, she noticed, featured a Confederate bumper sticker, and so—assuming the flag across the creek from Kiki and Arman’s was Confederate—she’d seen not one but two Confederate flags in the span of a day, right here in New York State.

The man was now standing on the ground, facing the water, leaning on the truck and yelling, presumably at the woman in the water. It was hard to tell if he was angry or happy. He was white, stocky. She might as well have been on public transportation: she had the urban dual instinct of acceptance and avoidance. Her eyes went toward the only other vehicle there: a banged-up compact car, the color of dried blood, which had the look of having been parked on this lakeshore through several seasons. The car’s decrepitude was sufficiently distracting so she only then noticed the man was not just yelling but also drinking.

“Nursing,” said Arman, getting out of his car. “She’ll just be a second.” Or that’s what it sounded like. Sarah had to strain to hear.

“Woman,” the man yelled. Then he laughed and tossed something in the water or maybe at her? She was laughing, too, right? She was laughing.

This man wore boots and pants too heavy for the weather and a tight black T-shirt. The woman floated on her back and closed her eyes, before moving toward shore and sitting in the sand, half-immersed in water once again.

He said, “I told you, you’re doing it wrong.”

“I am not,” she yelled. “Tell him,” she called out to them.

“Like they’re going to,” he said.

“I’m doing good,” she insisted.

“Come on, now. One, two, three.”

She dove underwater and thrashed around. Sarah realized the woman didn’t know how to swim.

The man said, “Come on now. Bitch, you’re not even trying.”

Kiki and Sylvie were still in the car. Sarah had the urge to knock on Kiki’s window and make the sign for wrapping it up. But Sarah hated nothing more than being rushed, and she’d hated it even more when she’d been nursing.

“You’re not doing it right,” the man yelled.

She was laughing again, the woman in the sand, but now, although Sarah realized she was probably projecting, the woman seemed nervous.

A trail went through the woods surrounding the lake. As soon as Kiki and Sylvie emerged from the car, they’d all get going. They’d walk until the cars and yelling man were nothing but specks in the distance.