The bats looped around a late-flying magpie and crossed to make a figure eight. Polly wondered if they herded the mosquitoes like dolphins herded schools of fish. All the small, swarming things of the earth—she thought of her childhood toes in the quiet water of the Sound, all the fry winnowing around, nibbling on her shins. She saw herself wading to the drifting rowboat, wondering why it was in the wrong place.

Helen climbed into her lap and started scribbling in the notebook. Polly didn’t startle; she knew she’d dropped into another place, one of those pauses. Mix in some wine and fatigue and it wasn’t that different from going to sleep, even if her eyes were open. But from the far side of the window, Harry’s voice was real life, a steady murmur aimed at the other men. Harry could be calming when he needed to. Vinnie was back to ifs and thens and the unfairness of anyone blaming Graham. If Ned had told Graham he had to work in the kitchen despite his ineptitude, or in the bar despite begging for a lawsuit, Ariel would have been in the raft, and lived. If Vinnie hadn’t loaned the group the kayak, Ariel would have lived. If Ariel hadn’t decided to fuck his good-looking nephew—

“Stop it,” said Ned. “No one blames Graham, but don’t you ever blame that girl.” The open kitchen window was beginning to throw a greater amount of light than it was taking in, the moment of reversal, day for night, and Polly could see the jut of his jaw. She knew how badly he wanted his good friends to go home, and now chairs scraped, Drake insisting he’d drive Vinnie, Vinnie saying he was fine.

Harry left through the back door. His face had been blasted by tears and wind and sun, though he would always be good-looking in a battered, geeky sort of way. He and Josie had been together, more or less and off and on, for years, but in his twenties and early thirties, here and in New York, he’d been cheerfully, openheartedly randy. Harry could walk into any bar or funeral in town and a solid percentage of women within ten years of his age would give him a fond, knowing neck rub. He gave Polly one now and talked about finding the Claremont student’s leg, and about the parents of the dead boy, whom he’d gotten to know the summer before when he was still a cop. They’d quit their jobs to search the river for their son’s body. When Harry called them after he’d found the bones, he promised to keep searching for the rest of his body.

“Hey,” said Polly.

“What?”

“Why wasn’t Ariel wearing a preserver?”