“Manatee Beach is way better,” I tell him, eager to get him in the car, “and it’s kind of a hike. It makes sense to drive.” It’s not that far, but I’ll wind through a few neighborhoods and make it seem further than it is, so he isn’t tempted to run back to get something. It’s best for us to stay away from the house all day in case someone shows up. People usually check in before dark. There’s still a risk at night, but if someone wasn’t here Sunday night, it’s not likely they’re coming now. Friday it gets dangerous again. But I like this house because it’s kind of run down, so I don’t think they rent it out much. It’s not what I would pick if I were paying. “My uncle always drives over to Manatee instead of walking.”

It’s funny, even when it’s bright and sunny and warm, when I close my eyes, branches and frozen rain are what I expect to see the next time I open them. All I have to do is blink and the shiny palm trees and bright yellow sun are suddenly shocking.

Justin runs into the water until it’s up to his waist, then dives in, pulling his arms back to hurl himself forward. Strong strokes he probably took lessons to learn, in a clean blue pool with floating ropes to mark out the lanes.

My mother taught me how to swim in the river in late summer when the water was low and calm. She’d hold me with both arms under my belly. She’d say, “Kick your legs, baby,” and I’d get mad at her for calling me baby when I was a big girl.

The next summer, when we went, she sat on the rocks on the shore, humming to herself, twisting her hair with her index finger and watching it uncurl. I swam alone, under the water, pretending I was a mermaid, testing my lungs to see how far I could get on one breath. I wonder if she ever panicked when I disappeared into the yellow-brown water. Or maybe she wished I’d never come back up.

The summer after that, she was gone.

I don’t follow Justin out to the big, rolling distant waves. Swimming like a mermaid is silly in the face of his perfect, metered strokes. I never learned to really swim, with my head above the surface. I shed my skirt, walk in shoulder-deep, and float on my back until the waves push me to shore.

“Shit,” Justin says, tilting his head to shake water from his ear. “We didn’t grab towels from the house.”

“Here,” I say, handing him my skirt. He looks at me funny but uses it to wipe his face. He’s not used to making the most of what’s in front of him.