Maggie emptied her pockets and made up lame stories for the pieces of beach glass. (“This one must really be jade. I’m going to sell it. Think how rich I’ll be.” “Here’s a little topaz. Pirate booty. Bet the rest of the treasure will ride in on a wave any minute now.”) Inane chatter and an unspoken plea: Don’t run away again. She thought about the tremble in the hand she’d held on the way back to the cabin. When was the last time Maggie had reached for a hand and held it? When was the last time she’d touched someone more scared than herself? Where her fingertips had grazed the fragile wrist, Kate’s pulse had fluttered like a trapped winged creature.

Sam was wrong. His daughter was not fearless. It bothered Maggie that he believed this. It worried her that his daughter pretended to be.

Kate watched and waited, eyeing Maggie suspiciously and then checking the driveway, back and forth, again and again. She didn’t talk except twice, once to clarify, “You are not my mom or my teacher or Wren,” a statement that Maggie interpreted to mean, You are nobody important.

And a second time: After Maggie finished a convoluted magical sapphire story for a blue chip, Kate turned to stare at the driveway and said, “Stupid. It’s just glass. I’ve seen broken glass lots of times.”

“It’s too early to go to bed,” Mom said, “and you haven’t even had supper. Did you eat anything today? You’ve got to eat, Maggie.”

“I did.” Earlier. At some point. Didn’t she? “I’m not hun—”

“Wren and I went out of our way to stop at a bookstore this morning, just so I could buy that book you wanted. Can’t you do this little thing for me? And look. Look at all this stuff we brought back.” Takeout containers covered the kitchen table. Maggie’s mother seized one and cracked the lid. “Cashew chicken. You used to love cashew chick—”

“Okay, okay.” Jesus Christ. Hot-faced, Maggie sat.

Sam, who’d been frowning at the floor, glanced at her. Kate was in his arms, sleeping against his chest. There was another visitor at the aunt’s table: Thomas Blake, Sam’s dad. His attention veered Maggie’s way.

Maggie trained her gaze on the table. She wished her mother wouldn’t talk so much, wished, too, she’d known these people would be staying so she could have complained of a headache beforehand and hidden in the loft.

After her day with Kate, Maggie just wanted to be alone.

Mom and Aunt Wren had gotten back a few minutes ago. Sam arrived hard on their heels; his father, not long after. An arranged gathering, Maggie figured. Sam must have phoned the others at some point during the afternoon.