Polly, in bed but not sleeping, let herself see Sam and Helen’s world, Polly style. No tides, no jellyfish, but the bank of a river where garter snakes sunned and stoneflies molted. The puff of fur at the edge of the willows that meant some small mammal’s death, the varied pellets from grass eaters: rabbit and moose, deer and geese. In the house, the way the cat played with mice while the dogs watched politely; the insect corners Polly never managed to clean. Silver spoons with devil’s heads, a whale tooth, masks. The photographs that meant something half-remembered, the strange and holy significance of objects on the windowsill, which were people to Jane and Polly, ghost stories to Sam and Helen. The way Jane would read a book out loud and wipe her hand down their faces to make them sleep and the way Polly would type fast, roll dough, flick a bandage onto a bloodying hole in the skin so quickly it never quite existed. The way Ned was simply there, swiftly and always, gathering them up and smothering every problem, and the way Merle could name every part of any creature, whether or not it was the truth, and draw it with his good hand while the withered one twirled pencils. The way they felt sympathy and love like a blanket.

More than anything else, they would have the memory of their mother and grandmother trying to block their view of their dead babysitter near the river.

Harry, who’d spent his professional life digging up versions of the past, had seen more bad things as a cop than anyone Polly knew. While the others packed people into the cars, he said Polly needed to stay, to give a clear account to Cy and Shari Swenson, the county coroner. They sat upstream and upwind of the body, and Harry told Polly about a way to make an image or memory retreat: Change what you’ve seen to black and white, move it further and further away. They were both being matter-of-fact, but Polly’s whole body was shaking. She had been looking for Ariel, and when she found her, she looked away. After all this effort, Polly was now intent on forgetting. Maybe this was the end of seeing too much, going into the painting.

“Or,” said Harry, “you can look harder and face it. That’s what works for me now.”