Brown’s Lobster Pound in Seabrook was one of the many places Sherri had driven by this summer and said to herself, We have to try that! That happened to her all the time—the hazard and joy of a coastal town in the summer. Try me! called the taco truck that parked at the Plum Island Airport. And me! pleaded the gelato shop downtown. Don’t forget about me! The food stands at Yankee Homecoming. The oysters at Brine. The sandwiches from Port City Sandwich Company. The whoopie pies at Chococoa Baking Company.

They took Route 1 toward the Salisbury Bridge, stopping at the hideous intersection where Merrimac Street and the bridge traffic came together and invited all the cars into a giant game of chicken.

Rebecca’s Acura had been totaled in the accident, and, obviously, that poor boy’s family had been totaled as well. Sherri hadn’t gone to the funeral because that felt presumptuous—she hadn’t known the boy. But she felt somehow responsible that anybody had died in this beautiful town this summer. Had she unwittingly brought darkness to a place that knew mostly light?

Brown’s was a low tan building, unassuming except for the fact that the building extended into the water, so you sort of felt like you were on a moving boat. You ordered at the counter and brought your food to a table. Sherri stood for some time looking at the menu. Katie took her hand and looked very seriously into her eyes and said, “Mom. It’s time.”

“Time for what?” Sherri felt her heart jump with a familiar terror. Katie was going to say something that would shake Sherri to her core—something about Bobby or the other men, something she’d seen or heard that Sherri thought she had kept her safe from. Something unspeakable.

But Katie was grinning. “It’s time to eat a whole lobster,” she said.

The relief that flooded through Sherri felt almost like a warm liquid poured over her head. “It is? No lobster rolls?”

Katie nodded firmly. “It is. We’ve lived here almost a whole summer, and we haven’t done it yet. No lobster rolls.”

“Okay,” Sherri said. She was weak with relief, and the relief made her feel silly, almost drunk. “Okay, Katie-kins! Anything you say!” They ordered two lobster dinners with the works, and they found a seat at one of the picnic tables on the outdoor deck.

The lobsters overran the edges of their paper containers. Around Katie and Sherri the other tables held a low, celebratory hum. Sherri would have ordered a stiff drink but she saw now that people were carrying in wine bottles and cans of beer in paper bags: it was BYOB, which somehow made it seem that much more festive. Truthfully, Sherri didn’t need anything to drink.

“Did you know they used to feed these to prisoners?” Katie said. She was holding up her whole lobster and considering it.