He nods. He seems unsurprised that Maggie knows this.

“Max,” she says, “is your dad an author? Does he write books?”

Max nods. “Only some. But my grandpa writes lots and lots and lots of books.” He holds his arms out as if he is holding the books. Maggie’s mom told her all about the other secret part of Anthony’s life too—the ultra-famous thriller-writer father. “Daddy doesn’t live with us anymore,” says Max.

Maggie supposes it’s not out of the question that Anthony’s wife and son would come to the island at some point during the summer. Maybe they have come to woo Anthony back. She hopes not. She doesn’t want Anthony to get wooed away.

“I’m sorry,” says Maggie. “Does that make you sad?”

Max nods again. “But before there was lots of fighting,” he says. “I didn’t like that.”

Maggie was so young when her parents split up that she doesn’t remember any fighting. “No,” says Maggie softly. “Of course you didn’t.” She thinks about how badly she wants her mother to be the kind of happy she was with Anthony. For her mother to be that happy, this kid will see less of his father. For Sandy to be happy, Tiki will grow up hardly knowing Maggie. It suddenly hits Maggie that there’s only a certain amount of happiness in the universe, and if you take what you think is your fair share, somebody else might have to give up theirs.

From far down Water Street she can see a figure on a bike. Driving next to the bike is a police car, and, as the car draws closer, Maggie can see that behind the wheel is Bret Holyman, one of the island’s four full-time police officers.

“It’s going to be okay, Max, you know that?” She suddenly feels very old and wise. “I promise you that everything is going to be okay, even though sometimes it seems like it isn’t.”

He nods solemnly. He has a cowlick—adorable. She’s not sure how this kid would react to a hug: some kids are huggers, some aren’t. (Sebastian is and Chase isn’t, for example.) She settles for a friendly shoulder rub, which is what Chase prefers. Max leans into her, the way Pickles does when you hit the perfect spot on her back, the one that makes her left hind leg twitch.

“Do you mind if I pick you up, Max, just for a sec?” Max shakes his head. He seems firm and sure of himself, like a survivor.

She raises Max into the air. It’s hard with the cast, but not impossible. He is heavy and solid in her arms, like three Tikis put together, or one Sebastian plus half a Chase. “He’s here!” she calls, as the bike comes closer. She’d wave an arm if she could, but she needs both to hang on to Max, so she instructs him to wave, which he does. “I got him!” Maggie cries. The wind picks up; the sky turns, almost instantly, from yellow to black. A bunch of trash funnels down Water Street. Then the rain comes.