I had removed my pajama pants, and now I put them back on as I crawled out of bed. The elastic waistband of my panties was damp. The hair around my face was damp. My face was damp. The clock read 3:08 a.m.

I left my room and went to the living room. He was not there, but when I glanced out at the patio, I noticed something . . . A plume of white smoke, twirling as thin as a vine, rose from beneath the patio. A little gasp escaped me. I understood now. He was outside, on the far side of the patio, on the beach and out of sight of anyone in the house, smoking a cigarette that was meant to communicate his location to me and only me—the smoke was a beacon. We were going to kiss, and maybe, probably, more. Concerned that opening the patio door might wake someone else in the house, I crept back through the hallway to the staircase at the far end. Down the stairs. Through the rec room. My heart thrashed against my thin pajama top. I felt like I might cry, but of course I wouldn’t.

I paused at the sliding glass door, which was pulled shut but unlocked. He might have already seen me, I realized, since I would be illuminated from behind by the light over the utility sink across the rec room. I hesitated, letting my eyes adjust to the night before me, and then prepared myself to go out into it.

That’s when I saw her hair. She was on top.

The universe blinked shut like an old-fashioned flashbulb. A hiss, and everything was gone. Then everything was back. I saw them in color, her red hair, his tanned arms, then in black and white, then in an oozing, inky nightmare. I hiccupped and swallowed back a rush of hot, sour nausea. They never saw me. They moved like aliens. Like monsters.

I ran. Back through the rec room, up the stairs, through the bedroom hallway, and out the front door of the house. Silent that whole way, not by willpower but by necessity; my throat was full of wasps. My desire to thrash wildly, to run and wake my father, to scream into his sleeping mouth what I had seen, to do some terrible violence to my mother, all this was overridden by my desire to get away from that house, as far as I could, and as fast. I took a left out of the driveway, pounding in bare feet up the sandy sidewalk, which was still damp from the rain. Tears were now slime that coated my face.

I ran and wheezed, my body feeling strangely insufficient.

Then I decided where to go. Yesterday afternoon, after the jellyfish, I had walked up the beach by myself to find it. There was no guarantee; the only way to identify the house would be to see either the man himself or his brown Labrador with the red collar entering or exiting. But luck was on my side, and the ten-minute walk proved worthwhile, because suddenly Leo and his handsome owner were in view as they made their way up the beach. I used my binoculars to confirm their identity. Leo’s long, pink tongue hung limp as a noodle from the side of his mouth. The owner had a leash and a towel in hand. I drew a little closer and watched as the man brushed sand off Leo’s paws. They entered, not a house but an apartment above a garage, through a side door of the garage. A light appeared inside a moment later.