“Not the one on Long Island. On Lake Michigan, with Rita and Tommy, when we were seven,” said Polly. A long, idyllic day on the beach with the Wards, but then a drowning, a young woman pulled out of the water after an hour of being churned against a harbor break wall, like a forgotten sock in a dryer or more pointedly a pebble in a rock polisher. Polly remembered the picnic basket of fancy food the Wards had brought, the quilt Jane spread on the sand, the wind spout that ran across the water toward them and disappeared just before it struck. The children lay on their bellies in the wet sand, letting the waves tug at their feet, watching everyone talk and laugh until a woman ran toward them from the harbor, calling for help.

“Another photograph,” said Jane abruptly. “Or Merle talking.”

There might have been a snapshot of the group together that day, but they certainly didn’t have a photo of the red-and-white body. Just a glimpse, but Polly could see the color, feel the water, hear the waves, hear the person who’d found the body scream. Which was only natural. Wouldn’t anyone scream?

“Not the picnic or swimming,” Polly said. “I remember the body.”

It was the wrong word to say out loud. Helen was tracking everything now, watching Polly’s face in the rearview mirror, and Sam gave up on the comic. He wouldn’t look at the helicopter anymore but she knew he could hear it.

“What body?” he asked.

“Years ago,” said Polly, putting the car in drive. “Put on your belt, now.”

Fritz gave a low keen, still locked on the rabbit, which squared off to face the car directly. Polly put her foot on the brake and turned in her seat, once again judging the distance to the back door handle. Fritz was trampling Sam, but he only held his comic higher and gave his mother a small, evil smile. “He just wants to play with the rabbit,” he said. “Aren’t you going to let him?”

People told Polly that she had the nicest children in town.

Jane tapped her leg. “Don’t do it.”

Polly honked and accelerated and focused on the street ahead. Look twice at stops, brake, be patient. The rabbit vanished into some browning lilacs.

“Do you think I don’t truly have a memory of the next summer, either, the man on the Sound?” asked Polly. “No cameras, that day.”

“No,” said Jane. “I’m sure you remember finding the man.”