Right. She tells me a lot of things. I feel so out of control. I’m still shaking. I slump to the ground.

“Don’t you own an extend-a-leash?” Tom asks. “When he catches the Frisbee, you can pull him back, force him to give it back to you.”

Diesel sits down, tall and proud, still gripping the Frisbee between his teeth. I am the guardian of the flat thing. I can bring it back. But you will just throw it away again.

Simon shakes his head. “Nah, don’t force the dog. Bribe him with treats instead, and he’ll want to bring you the Frisbee. Hold up. I’ve got a piece of beef jerky in my backpack.” As he strolls toward the goalpost where the backpack lies, he already has Diesel’s interest. The dog prances closely at his heels.

I smell salty meat. You may have the flat thing in exchange.

When Simon unsnaps the side pocket, Diesel sits tall again, one ear up and the other down.

I start to breathe more evenly. Maybe Diesel can be trained to avoid cars.

I want this salty meat.

Simon bites off a tiny wedge of jerky and holds it up to his eye. “Look, boy. Diesel, look.”

I can, indeed, see your salty meat.

Diesel’s eyes never leave that bit of beef jerky. My hands stop shaking.

Simon gives it to him and then rips off another wedge. He pitches the Frisbee and Diesel catches it, and this time Simon puts the jerky to his eye. “Look, Diesel. Bring!”

There is more? Diesel drops the Frisbee and runs toward Simon.

“No, Diesel. Bring.” Simon is patient, pointing toward the Frisbee. “Bring!”

But you keep throwing it away!

“If you want the jerky, you have to bring the Frisbee.” Silly human. Diesel bites at the Frisbee again. Then he lopes over to Simon and spits it at his feet.

I can’t help smiling.

Simon exchanges a bit of jerky for the disc. With each throw and wedge of dried meat, Diesel becomes faster at returning the Frisbee.

More salty meat. More! More! More!

Maybe we can also train him to come when called.

Mesmerized by the antics, Luanne barely blinks. Her head nods forward a couple of times, and she jerks it up to keep watching. Finally, she dozes off, and Morgan can join in the game.

Morgan wears cut-off jeans so short that the white pockets peek out from under the blue fray. Those shorts make her pale, skinny legs seem even longer as she stretches them to run. Her blond hair hangs in one smooth sheet that ends at her butt. That big bucktooth smile of hers looks so open and friendly. The rust flecks on her nose scream sunshine and fresh air.

Simon calls “Woot!” as she jumps up high and snags the Frisbee from the air.

My hair turns prickly with the humidity. Across the field, I notice that the lineup of kids is now moving into the building, all of them going to do something I can’t: swim.