Papa and Dee talking, pulling them along through this dreamtime summer. Polly, seeing it in stanzas decades later, was sure, on every waking, that her memory was clear. She could hear the steady rhythm of the oars, Papa’s voice with an accent, but not old, answering their random questions, both silly and earnest. His advice, moving over the water and under the moon, mixed with splashes in her mind: What to do if you’re lost in the mountains? Find water and follow it down. What to do if you see a large bear, as Papa had in Mongolia and Montana? Play dead. What to do if you fall into deep fast water, a riptide or a river? Let it take you until you see a chance, try to stay on your back, feet in the current. What to do if you have an enemy and want to act in anger? Wait and do it right. What to do if someone is lost, but not dead? Find them. What to do when they had children, as they would? Love them. The glinting silvery head and eyes, old shoulders pulling them home.

7. Monday, July 1, 2002

7

Monday, July 1, 2002

On Monday morning, Ariel reached the big bend, as the Yellowstone, which ran north out of the park, turned east toward Livingston and the prairie. Bodies mostly float spine-up, legs dangling, but when she rolled in the current her limbs stretched out and she moved down a deep channel on her back, two feet under the surface, eyes open and facing the filtered sun, strands of hair or the occasional fish or boat or duck body blocking the light. The shadow of pelicans, a speckle of sculpins, her own water bottle keeping up a quarter mile back.