his dad, he runs back into the lodge. He is crying too hard to see me.
Daniel stands there a long time, looking out at the lake. There’s a strange intimacy between us; I’m trapped by his presence. I can’t move from my hiding place without risk.
At last, he turns away from the water and returns to the house, muttering under his breath as he passes me. Once inside, he slams the door shut so hard it bangs back open.
I stand there a long moment, in the darkness, then step out into the dawning light. Behind the black trees and gunmetal gray lake, the sky is awash in layers of color—fuschia, lavender, neon orange.
I bring the camera up and find the perfect shot, but by the time I take it, I’ve lost interest. What I care about right now can’t be put in focus or framed in a neat little viewfinder.
Bobby and Daniel are in trouble. They are obviously drowning in a sea of what they’ve lost.
I know about those dark waters.
Someone needs to throw them a life ring.
B ack in the kitchen, I find a pot of coffee and a plate of muffins. Blueberry, my favorite. I add one cup of coffee and a single muffin to my tab, then go in search of mementos for my trip.
The perfect photograph. I’ll accept nothing less.
Outside, the pink dawn has given way to a gray and yellow day of inconsistent weather: There, by the road, it’s cloudy and rainy; here at the front door, it’s shadowy and moist; down by the lake, it’s sunny.
As I walk down the path, the air is thick with mist. Birdsong bursts forth in Gatling gun spasms with every step I take. I snap several photographs before the swing set catches my eye. This is a magnificent specimen—obviously hand-built and carefully designed. It has a slide, two swings, and a fort.
I used to love swinging; at the house in Calabasas, Stacey and I spent hours in the air, side by side, and pushing each other. I go to the swing set, set my camera gently on a step, and wipe dew from one of the black leather seats. Sitting, I lean back and pump my legs until I’m practically flying. The lemon and charcoal sky fills my vision.
“Grown-ups don’t play on the swings. ”
At Bobby’s voice, I stab my feet into the loose dirt and skid to a stop.
He’s standing near the skinned log stanchion. His eyes are bloodshot from crying. Tiny pink sleep lines crisscross his face. His curly hair is stick straight in places.
I feel an almost overwhelming urge to take him in my arms and hold him. Instead, I say: “They don’t, huh? Who says?”
He frowns at me. “I dunno. ”
“You want to join me?”
He stares at me for a long time, then eases toward the other swing. There, he takes a seat and leans back.
“This is a great swing set. Someone worked hard on it. ”
“My dad made it. A long time ago. ”
Together we swing, side by side, up and down. The clouds overhead coalesce and disperse and float away.
“You see that cloud there?” I say, on the upswing. “The pointy one. What does it look like to you?”
Bobby is quiet for a while, then he says, “My mommy. She had puffy hair like that. ”
“I think it looks like . . . hmmmm. A Zipperumpa-zoo. ”
“A what?”
“You’ve never heard of Professor Wormbog and his search for the Zipperumpa-zoo?”
He shakes his head solemnly.
“Oh, my. I guess I’ll have to tell you the story sometime. ”