Merle by then was measuring for bookshelves and talking to the kids, who had seen a monarch butterfly the day before, about metamorphosis and the difference between a chrysalis and a cocoon, and how completely different any of it was than, say, molting a carapace. He said that butterflies remembered the aversions they’d learned as caterpillars, despite an intervening existence as undifferentiated goo. Polly was considering what this meant when Maude’s cane rapped on the floor. It was possible that she’d been rapping for a while, but Polly ignored this call for help and ran back through the yard to the alley house. Jane was still in bed.

“Mom,” said Polly. “Mother.”

“I should never go near the water,” said Jane. “I can’t stop thinking of my poor mother drowning. Did you know she was almost as young as Ariel? I can’t bear it.”

Jane covered her face and wept, and Polly sat with her. What could she say? Live through this? Remind her of how much worse it was for the Delgados? Some things aren’t survivable.

But Jane knew all this. Polly wanted to ask about the death Jane owned, about Asta: Was the other person in the car driving? Did they live? Did they leave her to die?

Instead Polly said, “I love you, and I’m sorry.”

Jane pulled a pillow over her face.

Everything meant too much, again. Back in the main house, Polly heard water running in the tub upstairs, and the coffee machine was empty; Maude was ambulatory. Merle walked through the kitchen, dangling a measuring tape. “She’s been on the phone. She invited the Duerrs and the Kings tomorrow night. Since Ariel has been found, she said.”

“She’s not easy, is she,” said Polly.

“No.”

Merle puttered off, willfully oblivious, his own carapace hardened. Polly felt as if she’d been glazed with some mild form of novocaine. If this were a normal day, if she were still thinking clearly, what would she be doing? It was the Fourth of July, and there were no swimming lessons, even if Connie could have handled giving them. People were supposed to be happy, and Sam and Helen might still want to try to be happy. Polly had to think up something normal.

Upstairs, Maude was singing. Polly finished the card she’d started twice, pulled the extra tray of lasagna, the one in the nicest pan, out of the refrigerator, picked a large bouquet of roses and delphinium, clematis and astrantia, stuffed it in a fancy tequila bottle, and set out for the Delgados’ house.