In the morning, everything was normal again. They didn’t mention the fight, and so I didn’t either, but later, I asked Serena what had happened. She narrowed her eyes; she didn’t know anything about it. “But I will,” she said. “I’ll find out.”

Sometimes the four of us would walk down to the pond at the edge of the Center grounds, where the temperature always felt a few degrees cooler. I loved that oblong pool of water: it was dark and green, like a hole in the world, surrounded by stalks of unknown plants and greasy aquatic bushes. It struck me as somehow accidental, or temporary, the kind of pond that moved from place to place when no one was paying attention. The first time they took me there, Jamie was already sitting on the hand-carved bench, her arms wrapped around her body. She turned as we approached and scattered, rabbitish.

“Was it something we said?” Laurel wanted to know.

“She’s actually a pretty fast runner,” said Janet, watching her. “Interesting.”

I knelt at the pond’s edge. There was movement beneath the surface, something bright filtered by murk. Without thinking, I reached in and sank my arms to the elbows. The water was cool and thick, and I felt an oily brush against my fingers. A fish swam close to the surface. I saw the extravagant mustache dangling from its prehistoric snout before it turned up its white belly and rolled away. Koi, I knew from somewhere. I wondered if I could catch one and squeeze it.

“Legend has it,” Serena said, “that if you drink enough of the water, you can cure yourself of anything.”

“How much is enough?” I asked.

“No one knows,” Serena said. “No one’s ever had enough. You might have to die of it first.”

“You’d certainly have to kill all the koi,” said Janet.

“Koi,” Serena said, “means love in Japanese.”