Farther out at the sandbar, Alex and Kimmy were splashing around at handstands and somersaults, their voices carrying smoothly over the water’s surface.

Poppy said, “Lately, though, Ryan is more . . . ‘withdrawn’ isn’t quite the word. He’s a little more private, maybe. Happier than ever to spend tons of time by himself. The science stuff, seems like he’s always got something going with that, like that crab he found. Always got some sort of project going. And long bike rides, always by himself. Anyway, it doesn’t really concern me, it’s just something new.”

Lisa said, “Maybe he’s subconsciously preparing himself for college, pulling away a bit, knowing things will be different soon. Creating some distance.”

Poppy said, “That hadn’t occurred to me.”

Lisa was quiet for a while, then she said, “You don’t think Alex heard us, do you? Talking about the registry stuff? The way she sat up when we were talking again just there . . . I should have been more careful.”

“Nah. I think she’d speak up and be asking questions if she heard anything that upset her.”

“It’s funny, isn’t it,” Lisa said, “how kids have such a fascination with strangers. Especially when it’s their parents interacting with strangers.”

“How do you mean?” Poppy said.

“Well, I guess I’m thinking how my girls, especially Kimmy, always ask, ‘Mommy, who was that? What did that man say to you? And what did you say to him? And what did that mean?’ And it’s rarely anything at all. You know, I’ll be like, ‘He asked if we want our groceries packed in paper or plastic.’ But even when it’s nothing, they think they must know everything about it.”

The two women watched in silence as their daughters played happily together by the sandbar, while both of their minds thrashed and toiled over private concerns.

John was drowning in heat and light and sweat after a twenty-minute walk in the sun, but he had nearly made it back to the clubhouse when the air changed, suddenly becoming as thick as paste and smelling of overturned earth. The sky darkened to the color of ash, it grumbled and cracked, and then it exploded. John made his way toward shelter under the awning of the clubhouse. It occurred to him that he’d not passed anyone else on the course during his walk; others must have wisely looked at the forecast, he thought, and headed in earlier.

John could see dozens of people through the windows of the clubhouse, hobnobbing in their visors and pastels, sipping on cocktails in plastic cups while they waited out the storm. He had no interest in going in there; he was drenched already and would probably catch pneumonia if he set foot in that overly air-conditioned room.

The rain was heavy and wild and warmish, slapping against the concrete like applause. It pounded against the canvas umbrellas that covered the patio. The sky continued to growl, and it flashed in vibrations with purple-white lightning. John could not deny himself the pleasure of imagining Scott out there in the storm. The rain had come much too quickly, and Scott was much too far from any sort of shelter to possibly have found refuge. He was probably out there waving his putter at the sky, begging to get scorched.