I look toward the window again. Someone closes it, then the blinds.

“Forget about her. Her caretaker probably took her away.”

Maybe Morgan’s right. I’m overreacting to everything these days. We’re not safe until my time counter moves again, after all. I step back down into the pool, clinging to the edge as I shuffle along the side into the deeper water. I feel like an idiot. Why couldn’t I have learned all this when I was four?

You’re doing great! From the pool deck, Diesel leans toward me and washes my face with his tongue.

Morgan guides Luanne around the shallow part of the pool by her forearms, churning them as they go. “Big arms, and kick, kick, kick.”

Luanne looks happy and excited, her near-death experience forgotten. If only I could be like her. Diesel watches from the side, one ear up, the other folded down.

“She’s going to learn before you do,” Morgan says.

“You’re being mean again!” But she’s also telling the truth, which is the way it always goes with her jabs.

My arms and legs never quite work together.

Baby Luanne turns whiny. If we were home, I would give her a bottle or a snack. That’s when I realize the gnawing at my stomach isn’t just nerves. “Hey, I’m starving. Let’s go.”

Yes, yes. Food, food. Diesel circles.

“Probably as far as we’re going to get today anyway. I’m hungry, too.” Morgan lifts Luanne out of the water and up onto the patio. She hoists herself out and, to her credit, moves Luanne farther away from the pool.

As Morgan dries herself off, I pull my shorts and top on over my wet suit. There’s no changing room anywhere. Dark patches appear instantly all over my clothes. Then I put a dry diaper on Luanne and dress her back in her outfit.

“Hold up the towel for me,” Morgan tells me, with her back to the pool house.

I raise my Cheerios cereal towel, so old and threadbare anyone can probably see through it, as Morgan strips off her two-piece. She reaches in her backpack and puts on dry underwear. Then her clothes.

What do the wet patches on my butt and crotch matter? We’re going straight home anyway. The damp will keep me cool.

From the corner of my eye, I notice Diesel chewing at something. “What have you got in your mouth?” I ask and drop my towel so I can grab him to check.

The treat meat. You said it was old anyway. Why do you want to save it? He dodges away, teeth clenched over the treat bag.

“He stole the wiener bits from my pocket,” Morgan calls.

It is past time to eat, Diesel says.

Most dogs only eat twice a day.

Diesel runs for the waterfall side of the pool, leaving a trail of wiener slices behind him. I scoop them up and chase after him.

Run, my pack, run!

“Don’t eat the plastic!” I beg Diesel.