FicWad

The voice entered the room through the open window. At first it was part of the noise—birds, wind, the distant hum of a boat motor. Then the words separated from the noise and became hard, like pebbles thrown against glass.

"Wake up, Molly."

She lay on her side. Her left cheek pressed against the pillow, the cotton of the pillowcase damp with sweat. Her eyes opened. The lids lifted slowly, her lashes stuck together in two dark brushes. Light poured through the window, white and dense, filling the room from floor to ceiling, leaving shadows only under the bed and behind the door. On the wall, directly opposite the bed, hung a tear-off calendar—large red numbers on the top sheet frozen on the date 'May 18,' and just below that, '1988.'

Molly turned her head. Her neck creaked with the strain. The sheet beneath her was rumpled, its edge twisted around her right ankle. The red T-shirt with white stripes stuck to her back—a damp triangle of fabric between her shoulder blades.

Her father stood by the window. He wore a white short-sleeved shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing tanned forearms with dark hair. His trousers were beige, linen, with vertical creases running from his waist to his ankles. His bare feet stood on the wooden floor, his toes slightly curled, pressing against the warm boards.

He held a glass of water in his right hand. Ice in the glass clinked with each movement. Drops of condensation ran down the glass, falling to the floor at three-second intervals.

"Hot," he said. His voice was low, without hoarseness, as if he had already drunk water. "It's going to be hot today."

Molly sat up in bed. Her palms pressed into the mattress, her fingers gripping the fabric. She tossed her hair back—black strands falling onto her shoulders, a few hairs sticking to her damp neck. She ran her palm over her face, wiping sweat from her forehead, and looked at her fingers. They glistened with moisture.

Then her gaze slid across the wall, stopped at the calendar. Molly blinked, then smiled broadly:

"Daddy! Today's my birthday!" Her voice suddenly bright, shaking off the last of sleep. "And by the way, where are my shorts? The white ones with the little pockets?"

Her father pointed with the glass at the back of a chair by the door. On the chair hung blue denim shorts with two front pockets and one back patch pocket. The edges of the shorts were frayed, white threads sticking out along the seams.

"There, my now-six-year-old princess!" he said, putting a happy note into his voice. "Don't forget, your sandals are under the chair. Put them on, and we'll go have breakfast."

He walked to the bed and set the glass on the nightstand. The ice clinked, drops of water leaving a damp ring on the wooden surface. He reached out and tousled Molly's hair—his palm covered her head, his fingers squeezing for a second, then withdrawing.

Molly slid off the bed. Her bare feet touched the floor. The wood was warm, smooth, with small scratches from furniture. She walked to the chair and took the shorts. The fabric was soft, well-washed, smelling of sun and dust. She pulled them on, tugged at the waistband, buttoned the button. The button was metal, warm from the air.

She picked up her sandals—two rubber soles with white leather straps. One sandal fell to the floor with a dull thud. She bent down, picked it up, slipped her foot in, tightened the strap. Her fingers moved quickly, from habit.

Her father stood by the door. He had already put on light leather moccasins without socks. His toes showed through the cutouts in the leather. He took a white linen long-sleeved shirt from the chair and shrugged it over his shoulders, unbuttoned. The sleeves were rolled to his elbows.

"Daddy," Molly said, standing on one foot, fastening the second sandal. "Why didn't Mommy come with us? She wanted to see the orcas too."

Her father turned to her. "Mommy went to Grandma's on the Kennebec," he said. His voice was even, without pauses, as if he were reading a list. "She's getting the house ready for us. We'll go there the day after tomorrow, after the orcas."

Molly straightened up. She walked to her father and looked up at him. Sweat glistened on her upper lip. She squinted against the light from the window.

"Will Grandma be happy?" she asked. "Will Mommy be waiting for us by the river? Will we go swimming?"

Her father nodded. His hand dropped to the doorknob—brass, round, warm from the sun. His fingers closed around it.

"She'll be happy," he said. "We'll go swimming. Let's go."

He turned the knob. The lock clicked, the door opened a crack, letting in a new wave of hot air mixed with the smell of pine and salt water. Outside, voices could be heard—other people, children, laughter, the clink of dishes.

Molly stepped forward. Her left hand found her father's hand—her fingers wrapping around his pinky and ring finger, squeezing, pressing her palm to his dry hot skin. She looked into the hallway, where the light was even brighter, whiter, and the shadows of the stair railings lay on the wooden floor in long diagonal stripes.

"Daddy," she said. Her voice rose an octave, grew faster, the words tumbling out one after another like peas from a pod. "Are orcas big? Do they jump? Will we be on a boat? Can I pet them? What if they tip the boat over? Has Mommy ever seen orcas on the Kennebec? Why is the river called Kennebec, is that an Indian word?"

Her father walked into the hallway. His moccasins stepped on the boards silently, only the leather creaking slightly. He held the door open, letting Molly go ahead. Light fell on his face.

"Orcas are big," he said. "Black and white. They jump when they want to. We'll be on a big boat, with a motor. You can't pet them—they're wild. They won't tip the boat. Kennebec is an Indian word, yes."

He closed the door of the room. The brass knob clicked, the lock falling into place. He turned toward the stairs—wooden, wide, with dark wood railings polished to a shine. The railings were smooth, hot from the sun pouring down the stairwell through a high window on the landing.

Molly let go of his finger and ran to the railing. She placed both hands on it, palms down, and slid forward, guiding her hands along the smooth wood. The wood was warm, almost hot, and she felt its texture—fine pores and scratches left by other hands.

"Daddy," she said without turning around. "Why didn't we fly on a plane? We drove in the car for so long, I got tired. And then the ferry. The ferry was big, I saw seagulls. One seagull stole a sandwich right out of a man's hand."

Her father descended the stairs. Each step was wider than his foot, and he placed his foot in the center, shifting his weight slowly, without haste. His moccasins touched the wood with a soft, dull sound.

"Planes are expensive," he said. "The car is better. You saw deer on the road, remember? And the ferry is an adventure too. Seagulls always steal sandwiches. That's their job."

He stopped on the landing between flights. The window was tall, arched, and sunlight fell through it, creating a hot rectangle on the floor in which dust motes danced.

Molly ran to the landing and stopped beside him. She tilted her head back, looking up at him. Sweat ran down her temples, leaving dark tracks in her hair. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, removing moisture.

"Daddy," she asked. "Does Grandma have a boat? Will we ride on the river in it? Can Mommy row?"

He placed his hand on the railing and looked down into the hotel lobby, where several tables stood covered with white tablecloths, and where a waiter in a white jacket carried a tray with a coffee pot.

"Grandma has a motorboat," he said. "We'll ride. Mommy can row, but she prefers to sit and watch. She's waiting for us, Molly. She said she'd bake an apple pie."

Molly took a deep breath. The air in the lobby was hot, heavy, smelling of fried bacon and coffee. Her stomach made a low sound—a rumble audible in the silence between her questions. She placed her hand on her stomach.

"I want apple pie," she said. "And ice cream. Mommy always gives ice cream with pie. Daddy, where will we sit for breakfast? By the window? I want to see the water."

Her father stepped down to the next stair. His moccasin touched the wood. He turned, looking up at Molly, and his lips moved in a smile—not wide, but noticeable in the tension of the muscles at the corners of his mouth.

"By the window," he said. "I asked for a table by the window. You'll see the bay and the boats. Orcas come in the morning, we'll go to the dock right after breakfast."

He reached out his hand to her. His palm was open, fingers slightly curved. The skin on his palm was dry, callused, with yellow stains from old paint and resin.

Molly took his hand. Her small palm lay in his, her fingers wrapping around his thumb. She felt the warmth of his skin and the hardness of the bones beneath it.

"Daddy," she said, walking down with him, step for step, her sandals tapping on the stairs. "Wasn't Mommy upset that we went to see the orcas without her? Didn't she want to come?"

Her father descended beside her, shoulder to shoulder. His elbow touched her shoulder. He wasn't looking at her—he was looking ahead at the lobby door, where glass panels let in the morning light.

"Mommy loves orcas," he said. "But she wanted to help Grandma. You know Grandma can't manage the river house alone. Mommy will fix the porch, and we'll arrive—and everything will be ready."

They reached the bottom of the stairs. The lobby floor was covered with carpet—blue, with a geometric pattern of gray diamonds. The carpet was thick, and her father's steps became almost silent. Molly felt the soles of her sandals sink into the nap, leaving indentations.

She turned to the window. It looked out onto the bay—the water bright blue, with whitecaps from the wind, and several white boats at anchor, rocking. Seagulls hung over the water, their wings freezing in the air, then beating sharply.

"Orcas are black and white," she repeated, looking at the water. "Do they eat fish? Will we see them catch fish? I want to see them catch fish, Daddy."

Her father stopped at the restaurant entrance. The door was open, and from inside came the sounds of dishes, the clink of forks, and muted conversation. A waiter in a white jacket stood at a table by the window, wiping the table with a white cloth.

"They eat fish," her father said. "Salmon, mostly. Maybe we'll see them hunt. It's rare, but it happens."

He let go of Molly's hand and pointed to the table. The table was laid with a white tablecloth, on which stood a glass vase with wildflowers—yellow and white heads on long green stems. Two chairs were pulled out from the table.

"Sit down," he said. He pulled out a chair for Molly—the chair legs scraped across the carpet, leaving tracks in the nap. "Order whatever you want. I'll have coffee."

Molly walked to the chair. She placed her hands on the back, pulled herself up, and sat. The seat was wooden, smooth, with grooves from many sitters. She put her elbows on the table, her chin on her clenched fists, and looked out the window.

The water sparkled, white foam at the shore rolling in and out. On the horizon, the dark silhouette of an island showed—green, with gray rocks at the water's edge.

"Daddy," she said, looking out the window. "When we go to Grandma's, will we drive across bridges or take the ferry? Will Mommy be waiting for us at the dock?"

Her father sat down across from her. He picked up the menu, opened it—paper rustling—and ran his finger down the lines, not reading, just touching.

"By car," he said. "Over one bridge, then another. It'll take a while. Mommy will be waiting at the house, on the porch. You'll see her from far away."

He closed the menu and put it on the table. His fingers drummed on the cover—four beats, short, even.

The waiter came to the table. He was young, with red hair and a white jacket, damp with sweat under the arms. He held a notepad and a pen. The pen was black, with a clip.

"What will you have?" he asked. His voice was high, with a slight rasp.

Molly looked away from the window. She turned to her father, then to the waiter. Her hands lay on the table, fingers clenched into fists.

"Daddy," she said, and her voice was loud, clear, cutting through the noise of dishes and other voices. "Does Mommy know we're watching the orcas? Will she like it when we tell her? Will she ask us about it when we get there?"

Her father raised his hand, stopping the waiter with a gesture. His palm faced the ceiling, fingers spread. He looked at Molly across the table.

"Mommy will be waiting for us," he said. "And we'll tell her everything. She loves hearing about orcas."

He lowered his hand and picked up the menu again. Paper rustled. His finger pointed to a line at the top.

"Bring her waffles with strawberries," he told the waiter. "And orange juice. A large glass."

The waiter wrote it down. The pen scratched across the paper.

Molly placed her palms on the table. The skin of her hands was damp with sweat, and she left two dark marks on the white tablecloth. She turned to the window and rested her chin on her clasped hands.

Beyond the glass, the water sparkled, and seagulls circled over the boats. The sun stood high, its light flooding the bay, turning distant trees into blurred green patches. Molly squeezed her eyes shut for a second, then opened them.

The waiter left. His notepad disappeared into the pocket of his white jacket, the pen tucked behind his ear. He walked toward the counter, where another man in a white apron stood behind a coffee machine.

Molly turned on her chair. Her legs hung over the seat, her sandaled toes barely touching the carpet. She swung her legs—right-left, right-left, the rhythm steady as a pendulum. Her left hand lay on the tablecloth, her fingers fidgeting with its edge, rolling it into a little tube.

Her father picked up the glass of water that stood before him on the table. The glass was tall, with thin walls, two ice cubes floating inside. He brought it to his lips—the rim touching his lower lip—and took a sip. His Adam's apple bobbed once, twice. He set the glass back on the table. The ice clinked, settling.

He put his elbows on the table, laced his fingers together, and rested his chin on that bridge.

"Daddy," Molly said, stopping her leg-swinging. "Do orcas sleep at night? Or do they swim all night? If they sleep, how do they breathe?"

Her father unclasped his fingers. His right hand lay on the table, his forefinger beginning to draw circles on the tablecloth—small, uneven, almost invisible.

"Orcas sleep," he said. "They swim slowly when they sleep. They close one eye, then the other. That's how they breathe—they rise to the surface and take a breath, even while sleeping."

He raised his finger and pointed out the window, at the water of the bay.

"Out there, by that island," he said. "They pass by in the morning. We'll see them from the boat."

Molly turned on her chair so she could face the window. She put her hands on the windowsill beside the table. The wooden sill was sun-warmed, warm, almost hot under her palms. She leaned forward, pressing her chest against the edge of the window. In the glass, her face was reflected—blurred, with dark eyes and damp hair stuck to her forehead.

She held her breath. White foam at the shore rolled in and out, leaving dark wet stripes on the sand. A seagull landed on a piling—a wooden post sticking out of the water—and folded its wings. The wings were gray, with black tips.

"Daddy," she said without turning. "Why did Mommy go alone? Isn't she scared to travel alone? Did she say she'd drive?"

Her father looked at the back of her head, at the black hair falling onto the shoulders of her red T-shirt.

"She's not scared," he said. "She took the train. The train goes to Portland, and from there a bus to Grandma's house. She likes traveling alone. She likes looking out the window at the fields and forests."

Molly moved away from the window and sat back down on her chair. She put her elbows on the table, her chin on her fists. Sweat glistened on her forehead, and she wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, brushing away the drops. A damp trail remained on her skin.

"Does she miss us?" she asked. "Is she waiting for us on the Kennebec? Will she stand by the river and watch us arrive?"

Her father looked at her across the table, and his lips pressed into a thin line, then relaxed.

"She's waiting," he said. "She'll be standing on the porch when we get there. You'll see her from far away. She'll wave."

He picked up the glass of water and brought it to his mouth. The ice clinked. He took another sip, then set the glass down.

The waiter returned. In his hands, he carried a tray. On the tray was a large plate of waffles, drizzled with strawberry syrup, and a tall glass of orange juice. The juice was orange, with drops of condensation on the glass. Beside the plate lay a napkin—paper, white, folded into a triangle.

He set the tray on the edge of the table and began transferring items. The plate—in front of Molly. The glass—to the right of the plate. The napkin—to the left. A fork, wrapped in another napkin—in front of the plate. He stepped back and waited for her father to look up.

"Coffee?" the waiter asked.

Her father nodded. Once, sharply.

"Black," he said. "Large."

The waiter nodded in return and left. His jacket was damp on the back, a wide dark patch between his shoulder blades.

Molly picked up the fork. The napkin fell to the table. She stabbed the fork into the waffle. The tines entered the batter, piercing it with a crunchy sound. Syrup leaked from the puncture, spreading across the plate in thin red rivulets. She brought the piece to her mouth. Her upper lip touched the syrup, leaving a red mark on the skin above her lip.

She bit down. The fork clinked against a tooth. She chewed, opening her mouth with each movement of her jaw. The waffle crunched, the syrup sweet, cloying, with a tartness of strawberry. She swallowed and licked her lips with her tongue.

"Good," she said. "Daddy, do you want a bite?"

She held out the fork with the remaining piece of waffle impaled on the tines. Syrup dripped from the end of the fork onto the tablecloth, leaving three red spots.

Her father raised his hand—palm open, fingers spread in a gesture of refusal.

"No, thanks," he said. "Eat it yourself. I'll wait for my coffee."

She pulled the fork from her mouth and stabbed it into the waffle again. Took another bite. Chewed. Swallowed. Then she picked up the glass of juice, brought it to her lips, and drank. The juice was cold, tart, it burned her throat, and she coughed once, covering her mouth with her hand.

She set the glass down. Juice splashed onto the table, leaving orange drops on the tablecloth. She ran her finger through a drop and licked her finger.

"Daddy," she said when the juice was swallowed. "Does Grandma live right by the river? I remember there's a dock, wooden, and a swing on a tree. Will we swing?"

Her father leaned back in his chair. The chair creaked under his weight. He folded his arms across his chest, his left palm on his right bicep, his right on his left.

"Yes," he said. "Right by the river. The dock is still there. The swing is still there too, but the ropes are old, we'll need to replace them. We'll do that together. Buy new rope at the store by the bridge."

Molly set down the fork. She picked up the napkin, unfolded it, and began wiping her fingers—one by one, slowly, with pressure. The paper became damp and sticky from the syrup.

"Will Mommy help us with the rope?" she asked. "Does she know how to tie knots? I've seen her tie her sneaker laces, she makes a bow, then twice."

She tossed the napkin on the table. The napkin fell beside the plate, staining red.

Her father didn't answer. He was looking out the window, over her shoulder, at the bay. His head was still, only his eyelids blinking once—slowly, as if checking whether he had fallen asleep.

Molly followed his gaze. She turned and looked out the window too. Beyond the glass nothing had changed—the same blue water, the same seagulls, the same green island on the horizon. But she looked where he looked, and waited.

A minute passed. In the restaurant, dishes clinked, someone at the next table laughed—a low guttural laugh from a man. A spoon fell to the floor with a metallic ring.

Her father exhaled. Air left through his nose, widening his nostrils, and he lowered his arms, placing them on the table.

"Mommy ties knots," he said. "She knows how. She'll teach you."

He picked up the glass of water and brought it to his lips. The ice had already melted, leaving only small pieces floating in the murky water. He drank it all to the bottom, set the glass down, and turned it on the table—once, twice, three times, the bottom describing circles.

The waiter returned with a cup of coffee. The cup was white, thick-walled, with a saucer. Steam rose from the surface, curling in the air. He set the cup before her father, the saucer clinking against the tablecloth.

"Anything else?" the waiter asked.

Her father shook his head—once left, once right.

The waiter left. Silence returned to their table.

Molly pushed away the empty plate. On it remained traces of syrup and crumbs of waffle. She picked up the juice glass, which was nearly empty—only a thin layer of orange liquid on the bottom. She raised the glass and poured the remaining juice into her mouth, tipping her head back. Her throat moved as she swallowed.

She set the glass down. The bottom struck the tablecloth with a dull sound.

"Daddy," she said, and a new note entered her voice—higher, quicker. "When we go to Grandma's, will we bring my chalk? I want to draw on the porch. There's concrete, and I drew flowers there last time. Will Mommy show me how to weave dandelion crowns?"

Her father picked up his coffee cup. He brought it to his lips, inhaled the steam through his nose, then took a small sip. His lips pressed together, he swallowed. The skin on his cheeks was damp with sweat, drops running down his cheekbones to his chin.

"We'll bring the chalk," he said. "And paper. And pencils. We'll bring everything. Mommy will show you the crowns, if the dandelions are already up."

He set the cup on the saucer. The coffee was black, without sugar, and a thin oily film floated on the surface.

Molly slid off her chair and walked to the window. She knelt on the carpet, elbows on the windowsill, chin on her folded hands. She looked at the water. Wind blew through the open casement, touched her face, blew her hair back, carrying black strands behind her.

"Daddy," she said without turning. "Do orcas sleep when it's hot too? Or do they like the heat?"

Her father rose from the table. The chair scraped back. He took his coffee cup in his right hand, walked to the window, and stood beside her, leaning his left palm on the windowsill. Their shoulders almost touched.

"They like cool water," he said. "They look for cold water when it's hot. Today they'll be closer to the surface because the water has warmed up."

He took another sip of coffee. Steam rose to his face. Molly stretched out her hand and pointed a finger at a spot in the bay where the water was darker, almost blue, and where rings appeared on the surface.

"Daddy, there!" she said, her voice breaking into a shout. "I see something dark! Is that an orca?"

Her father squinted and looked in the direction of her pointing hand. The water was empty—only ripples from the wind and the reflection of clouds.

"It's a shadow from a cloud," he said. "Or a boat. The orcas will come later, when we go out on the boat. Finish your breakfast."

Molly lowered her hand. She turned her head and looked up at him. Her eyes were wide open, her pupils dilated from the bright light pouring through the glass.

"Daddy," she said. "If we don't see orcas today, can we try tomorrow? Do we have tomorrow? Or will we leave?"

Her father set his cup on the windowsill. The cup clinked against the wood. He placed his palm on her head, his fingers resting on her crown, pressing her hair to her skull. He squeezed his fingers for a second, then withdrew his hand.

"We have tomorrow," he said. "And the day after. We'll see the orcas. I promise."

He turned and walked back to the table. His moccasins stepped soundlessly across the carpet. He sat down, picked up his cup, took another sip of coffee.

Molly stayed by the window. She placed her palm on the spot where his hand had just been, pressing her hair to her head. She looked at the bay, at the water, at the horizon. Her lips moved soundlessly, repeating the words: "I promise."

At the next table, someone laughed again. A spoon clinked against a cup. The wind blew stronger, and the curtain at the window swayed, touching her shoulder. The fabric was white, light, and she ran her fingers over it, feeling its coolness.

She didn't turn around. She looked at the water and waited.

Molly stood at the window for another three minutes. The fingers of her right hand continued to touch the curtain—running across the white fabric, squeezing it, releasing it. The wind from the bay carried the smell of seaweed and salt, mixed with the heat rising from the sun-warmed glass. She turned from the window when she heard her father set his cup on the saucer with a dry clink.

He sat at the table, leaning back in his chair. The cup was empty, only a dark puddle of coffee remaining at the bottom, already cool. He took his wallet from his trouser pocket—black leather, worn at the edges—and opened it. His fingers sorted through bills: one, two, three green notes. He laid them on the table, on top of the check the waiter had left beside the vase.

Molly walked to the table. She picked up her napkin, crumpled it in her palm, and tossed it onto the empty plate. The ball of paper fell into the remains of the syrup and began slowly absorbing the red liquid.

"Daddy, are we going?" she asked. Her voice was quick, with a note of impatience. The heel of her left foot rose and fell, bouncing on the carpet.

Her father closed the wallet and put it back in his pocket. He stood, and his chair slid back, scraping across the carpet. He took a step toward the restaurant exit and stopped, waiting for Molly to come to him.

"Let's go," he said.

She ran to him, took his hand—her fingers wrapping around his ring finger and pinky—and they walked together through the lobby. The carpet was soft under their steps. Light from the high window fell on the floor in long yellow rectangles, in which dust motes danced. They passed the front desk—wooden, dark, behind which stood a man in a white shirt, turning pages in a register. The man looked up and nodded to her father. Her father nodded back, not slowing his pace.

The hotel doors were glass, with brass handles. Her father pushed one with his palm, and the door opened, letting in a wave of hot air that struck their faces like a wet cloth. Molly squeezed her eyes shut for a second, then opened them.

The sun stood high, white, almost merciless. The sky over the bay was clear, without clouds, only a thin haze on the horizon blending the blue of the water with the blue of the sky. Heat rose from the pavement—gray concrete, heated to a temperature she could feel through the soles of her sandals. The pavement was cracked, with black streaks of tar in the crevices. Molly stepped onto it and felt the warmth penetrate the rubber.

They walked along the street by the bay. To their right was the water—bright blue, with whitecaps washing against the stone embankment. To their left, low buildings, white and pale yellow, with signs painted with fish and boats. From one building came the smell of fried fish and potatoes, mixed with the smell of diesel fuel from the motorboats tied up at the dock.

Molly let go of her father's hand and ran ahead, to the railings of the embankment. She stood on tiptoe and put her elbows on the top metal bar. The metal was hot, heated by the sun, and she jerked her elbows back, almost crying out. She blew on her skin and put her elbows back, this time on the sleeves of her T-shirt, making a fabric layer between her skin and the metal.

Her father came up beside her. His eyes narrowed against the bright light. He looked at the water, then at the dock, where dozens of boats rocked—white, blue, with striped canopies.

"Our boat is there," he said, pointing to the third boat from the end. It was white, with a blue stripe along the side, and a small outboard motor raised at the stern. A yellow life ring was tied to the bow.

Molly turned to him. Sweat ran down her temples, and she wiped her forehead with her palm again, brushing away the moisture. Her T-shirt clung to her stomach and back, and she pulled the fabric away from her skin, creating a small gap.

"Will we go straight out there?" she asked, pointing to the open water of the bay. "To those dark rocks?"

Her father nodded. He turned and walked down the wooden planks of the dock. The boards creaked under his feet, and the smell of wet wood and salt rose from them. He stepped on the center of each board, avoiding those with rotten edges.

Molly ran after him, her sandals clattering on the wood. She caught up to him at the boat. Her father bent and untied the mooring line wrapped around an iron bollard on the dock. His fingers worked fast—untied the knot, loosened the loop, and the line dropped into the water with a light splash.

"Sit down," he said, pointing to the bow. "Sit on the front seat. Hold on to the rail."

He stepped over the gunwale—his foot finding the wooden deck—and turned to help Molly. He reached out his hand, palm up. She took his fingers and stepped over the side. Her foot touched the deck, and the boat rocked under her weight, listing slightly. She grabbed the back of the seat to steady herself and sat down on the soft cushion, covered in white vinyl. The fabric was hot from the sun, and she felt the heat even through her shorts.

Her father went to the stern. He lowered the motor into the water—the lever on its handle clicking, the propeller blades sinking beneath the surface, cutting the water with a dull sound. He pulled the starter cord once, twice. The motor coughed, sputtered, then caught with a steady, heavy hum, a puff of blue-gray smoke rising and dissolving in the air. The water behind the stern began to bubble, and the boat slowly pulled away from the dock.

Her father stood at the wheel—small, metal, with a rubber grip. His right hand rested on the wheel, his left hand gripping the throttle. He turned the wheel to the left, and the bow described a slow arc, heading into the open bay.

Molly sat still. Her fingers wrapped around the metal rail running along the gunwale. She watched the water parting under the bow, forming two white waves that spread to the sides and disappeared astern. The water was dark blue, with a greenish tint, and through it she could see rocks on the bottom—brown, smooth, covered with seaweed swaying in time with the waves.

She lifted her head and looked ahead. The bay opened before them in a wide expanse, stretching to the horizon where the island lay green on the water. Seagulls circled above the island, their cries reaching them even through the hum of the motor.

"Daddy!" she shouted, turning her head toward him. The wind blew her hair back, and she held it with her hand, pressing it to her temple. "Will we go all the way to that island? Are there orcas there?"

Her father turned the wheel slightly, straightening course. The motor hummed steadily, its vibration transmitting through the deck, and Molly felt the soles of her sandals trembling with it.

"We'll go there," he said, his voice loud to carry over the motor's noise. "Orcas often pass between this island and the next. The water is deep there."

He gave it more throttle. The motor hummed louder, the bow rose a little higher, and the speed increased. The water parted more quickly, and the white wake astern lengthened, curling into foam. The wind grew stronger, striking Molly's face, making her squint.

She let go of the rail with one hand and shielded her eyes from the sun with her palm. The heat mixed with the wind, creating a dry, scorching current that dried the sweat on her skin, leaving a salty residue. She licked her upper lip and tasted salt on her tongue.

"Daddy!" she called again, turning toward him but not standing. "Will we see them from far away? Do they jump out?"

Her father looked ahead, at the horizon. Sweat ran down his temples, mixing with small drops of water flying from the spray.

"First we'll see the spout," he said. "They exhale, and you can see it for half a mile. Then they might jump."

He eased back on the throttle, and the boat slowed. The motor's hum grew quieter, and in the relative silence that followed, the cries of seagulls and the slap of waves against the hull became audible. He cut the engine. The propeller stopped spinning, and the boat glided on inertia, slowing.

He turned the ignition key. The motor fell completely silent, and real silence descended—only the water lapping at the hull, and somewhere a seagull crying in the distance. The boat rocked gently on a light swell.

Molly knelt on the seat. She leaned on the gunwale with her hands and leaned forward, peering at the surface of the water. The water was dark and clear to a depth of several feet, and she could see seaweed floating there and occasional fish, silver shadows flickering and disappearing.

"Daddy, are they here now?" she asked in a whisper, though there was no reason to whisper.

Her father came to her and stood beside her, placing his hands on the gunwale. The boat listed slightly from his weight. He looked at the water, then at the horizon.

"Maybe," he said. He paused and added, "We have to wait. They'll come if they want to."

Molly kept looking at the water. Her right hand dipped into the water to the wrist, and she felt the cold—the water was cool, sharp, contrasting with the heat of the air. She moved her fingers, and small bubbles rose from her skin.

Her father stood motionless beside her. He wasn't looking at her—he was looking at the water, the horizon, the sky. His hands rested on the gunwale, fingers slightly bent.

Several seconds passed. Silence held, only the waves tapping softly against the wood.

Molly pulled her hand from the water and shook off the drops. She sat on the seat, turning to face him.

"Daddy," she said, and her voice was steady, without a question. "Mommy is waiting too, by the river. Like we're waiting for the orcas here. She's also watching the water and waiting for us to arrive."

Her father turned his head. He looked down at her. His eyes were wet from sweat and reflected light off the water.

He said nothing. He just placed his palm on her shoulder—lightly, for an instant—and withdrew his hand.

He turned and walked back to the stern, to take the helm. He sat, turned the key. The motor started with one pull, humming. He took the throttle and eased it forward. The boat began to pick up speed, and its bow lifted again.

Molly sat in her place. She looked ahead, at the bay, where the water parted, opening a path between the green islands.

The boat ran steady. The motor hummed on one note, the bow cutting the water, leaving a long white furrow astern that slowly broke into small waves. Molly sat on the front seat, gripping the rail with both hands. The wind blew in her face, blowing her black hair back, and she squinted against the sunlight reflecting off the water.

She looked ahead, where the bay widened, revealing two green islands separated by a narrow strait. The water there was dark, almost black, with a light chop from the wind. There was nothing on the surface—no boats, no birds, only sun sparkles that trembled and broke apart.

Five minutes passed. Molly began to shift on the seat, shifting her weight from one thigh to the other. She let go of the rail with her right hand and shaded her eyes with her palm, scanning the horizon.

"Daddy," she shouted without turning. "Where are they? I don't see anything."

Her father stood at the wheel, his left hand on the throttle, his right on the wheel. He didn't answer at once. He looked ahead, squinting slightly, his head turning slowly, scanning the horizon.

"Patience," he said after a few seconds. "They come when the water is calm. Watch the surface. Look for dark shapes."

Molly stared at the water again. Her eyes scanned the surface, from one island to the other, from sparkle to sparkle. She held her breath for three heartbeats, then exhaled.

Suddenly she saw something half a mile ahead, to the left of the bow. There, where the water was dark blue, a short plume of vapor rose—white, tall, rising above the water to the height of two elbows and scattering in the air like a fine rain. The plume disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.

Molly sprang to her feet. The boat rocked beneath her, and she grabbed the rail to keep from falling. Her other hand shot forward, pointing in that direction.

"Daddy! There! I saw it! A spout!"

Her father looked where she pointed. He turned the wheel slightly, steering the boat toward that spot. He didn't increase speed—the boat continued at the same pace, but the course shifted ten degrees to port.

"I see," he said. His voice was even, but a faint vibration had entered it, like a string just touched.

Molly stood, gripping the rail. Her fingers were white with tension. She didn't take her eyes off the place where the plume had appeared. Several seconds passed. The water was empty.

Then she saw a shadow beneath the surface. It was dark, long, moving under the water, smooth, like an enormous fish, and its outline was clear—back, fin, tail. The shadow broke the surface for an instant, showing a black glossy back and a dorsal fin as tall as an adult's arm. The fin was crescent-shaped, with a curved tip, cutting the water, leaving a smooth ripple behind. Then the shadow dove under, and only widening rings remained on the surface.

Molly screamed. The scream was high, piercing, tearing from her throat with the air, filling the space between water and sky.

"She's here! Daddy, she's here! I saw the fin! A huge fin!"

She jumped onto the seat with both feet, bouncing in place. The soles of her sandals struck the vinyl upholstery with a dull thud. She waved her arms—both arms raised over her head, palms open, fingers splayed—and spun in place, nearly losing her balance. The boat rocked from her movements, and her father placed his palm on her shoulder, steadying her.

"Quiet," he said, but there was a smile in his voice, audible in the change of tone. "You'll scare them off."

Molly froze for a second, but her breathing remained fast, uneven. She turned back to the water.

Now there were two. Two dark shadows glided beneath the surface, one slightly ahead of the other. They moved parallel to the boat, fifty yards away. One of them surfaced completely—head, back, dorsal fin, tail—and dove under again, leaving a smooth black arc that glistened in the sun like wet coal. Water streamed off its body, cascading in small drops that hung in the air for an instant before falling back.

Molly opened her mouth. No sound came out—only air drawn into her lungs. She stood motionless, staring at the place where the orca had been. The muscles of her face tightened, her cheeks lifting, baring her teeth—a smile wider than any she had worn in days. She clenched her fists and pressed them to her chest.

Then she spoke—fast, loud, the words tumbling out without pause, bumping into one another.

"Daddy, they're so big! So black! And the white spots, I saw white spots, they shone! And the fin, like a scythe! And the second fin was bigger! And they're right next to the boat, they're swimming with us!"

She turned to her father, still smiling. Her eyes were wide open, her pupils dilated, sweat beaded on her forehead, but she didn't notice it.

He stood at the wheel, leaning forward slightly. His hands rested on the wheel and the throttle, his fingers gripping them with slight pressure. He watched the water, the shadows moving along the side. His lips were pressed together, but two vertical creases had appeared at the corners of his mouth—not from strain, but from holding back a smile.

"They've noticed us," he said. "They're curious. They want to see who we are."

Molly turned back to the water. One of the orcas surfaced directly in front of the bow—twenty feet away. It rose from the depths like a huge black object rising from the bottom, and its head, round and smooth, broke the surface, then its back and dorsal fin, and then its tail, wide and powerful, which slapped the water, raising a column of spray. The spray reached the boat, a few drops touching Molly's face—salty, cold, sharp as pinpricks.

Molly squealed. Not in fear—in delight. She jumped, and the boat listed, but she held on, clutching the rail with both hands. She stared at the place where the orca had gone under, and waited.

It appeared again, now to starboard, right beside the boat—within arm's reach. Molly saw its eye—dark, glistening, with a white patch around it, like a mask on a face. The eye looked at her, unblinking, a black pupil in the center of a dark brown iris. Then the orca dove, and its tail passed two feet from the gunwale, leaving a swirl of water that rocked the boat.

Molly screamed again. She reached her hand toward the water, her fingers opening as if she wanted to touch the black back.

"Daddy, it looked at me! It looked right into my eyes!"

She turned to her father, and now she was laughing—loud, open, her laugh high and clear as a bell. She took one hand off the rail and began clapping, fast, random. The claps were loud, sharp, mixing with the splash of water and the cries of seagulls.

"We found them! We found the orcas! Daddy, I saw them, I saw them with my own eyes!"

She stopped and looked at the water. Now there were four—four dark shadows circling the boat, appearing and disappearing like ghosts in the depths. One of them leaped completely out of the water—its whole body, from nose to tail, flying into the air, arcing, glistening black and white in the sun, and dove back with a dull thud, raising a fountain of spray that glittered in the air like scattered diamonds.

Molly screamed—just screamed, without words, at the top of her lungs. Her scream carried over the water, echoed off the rocks on the island, and returned in a short, muffled echo. She bounced in place, again and again, and the vibration of her jumps transmitted to the deck, rocking the boat.

Her father didn't stop her. He stood at the wheel, watching the water, the orcas, his daughter jumping and shouting. His right hand left the wheel and rose, fingers clenched into a fist, thumb sticking up—a gesture he showed her for an instant, then lowered his hand back to the wheel.

Molly stopped. She stood, breathing heavily, sweat streaming down her face in rivulets. Her T-shirt clung to her body, wet from sweat and salt spray. She looked at her father and smiled—a wide smile, showing her teeth, her gums red with strain.

"Daddy," she said, catching her breath. "I'll never forget this. Never. I'll tell Mommy. She'll be happy."

Her father nodded. He wasn't smiling—his face remained even—but his eyes were wet. He looked at her, and his head inclined forward slightly.

She turned back to the water. The orcas continued to circle the boat, their black backs appearing and disappearing, plumes of vapor rising in the air at intervals of a few seconds. One of them swam very close, right up to the gunwale, and Molly knelt to look at it up close. She saw the white patch behind its eye, the smooth line of its mouth, which looked like a smile, and its skin, smooth as silk, glistening in the sun.

She reached out her hand again, but didn't touch the water—held her palm an inch above the surface, feeling the cold rising from the water, and the movement the orca made with its body.

And she laughed again—loud, free, her voice carrying over the bay, mingling with the splash of water and the cries of distant seagulls, and her laugh was louder than the motor, louder than the wind, louder than anything in the world.

The sun stood overhead. There was no shadow under the boat. The water was blue and dense. The motor ran steadily. Molly knelt on the front seat. Her fingers gripped the rail.

The orca surfaced to starboard. Its back was black and wet. Water streamed from it in long threads. The dorsal fin cut the air. It was two hands tall. The tip of the fin curved back.

Molly looked into the water. Her lips were parted. Her breath came in short bursts.

The orca dove under. Its tail rose above the surface. A wide tail, dark, with white edges. It slapped the water. Spray reached the boat. A few drops landed on Molly's face. She didn't blink.

She straightened on her knees. Her palms rested on the gunwale. The metal was hot under her fingers. She turned her head. She looked at her father. He stood at the wheel. His left hand lay on the throttle. His right hand held the wheel. His face was still.

She asked. Her voice was high and fast.

"Daddy. Can I jump on it and ride?"

Her father didn't answer at once. His fingers on the wheel tightened slightly. Knuckles whitened for an instant, then returned to color.

She kept talking. The words came fast, without pauses between them.

"Like that man on the dolphin in that old book. The one you read to me at home. There was a picture. He was holding on to the fin."

She paused. Her hands still lay on the gunwale. She looked at the water. The surface was empty.

"That author had a silly last name too."

She turned to him. Her eyebrows were raised. The muscles around her mouth were tense.

"You can't jump on an orca," he said. He spoke slowly, separating each word from the next. "It's a wild animal. You'd fall in the water. The water is cold here. The current is strong."

He paused. His thumb on his left hand tapped the throttle lever. One tap, two, three.

"Belyaev isn't a silly last name. It's Russian. Just not American."

Molly turned away. She looked at the water. Her shoulders dropped half an inch. Her jaw clenched. The muscles in her cheeks tightened.

She said, without turning her head. Her voice was lower than before. A hardness had entered it.

"Yours is a silly last name too. Like that writer's. Palych."

Her father stood motionless. His hands rested on the wheel and throttle. He didn't move. Only his chest rose and fell. Beneath his white shirt, the movement was visible.

He said. His voice was even.

"Palych isn't a last name. It's a patronymic. That's how it is for all people in Russia. Every person has a first name, a patronymic, and a last name. The patronymic is from the father. People call me by my patronymic because I'm Russian."

He let go of the wheel with his left hand. He raised his hand and pointed at the water, at the spot where the orca had disappeared.

"You're American. You were born here. So you only have a first name and a last name. Without a patronymic."

Molly sat still. Her back was straight. She looked at the water. Her hands rested on the gunwale. Her fingers were open. She wasn't gripping them.

She asked. Her voice was quiet. Quiet, but clear.

"When are we going to Grandma's?"

Her father lowered his hand. He took the throttle. He moved it forward half an inch. The motor hummed louder. The boat tilted forward slightly.

He said. His voice carried over the motor's noise.

"Soon. A little more watching. Then we need to get going."

He cut the engine. Silence returned. Only the water lapping at the sides. Somewhere a seagull cried.

Molly didn't turn around. She looked at the water. Her left hand rose. She ran her fingers across her forehead. Sweat stayed on her fingers. She looked at her hand. Her fingers glistened in the sun. She lowered her hand to her knee.

She asked. Her voice was softer.

"How long is the drive to Grandma's? From here?"

Her father stood motionless. His hands lay on the wheel. He looked ahead, at the horizon.

He said. His voice was slow.

"First the ferry. The ferry takes an hour and forty. Then a car to the airport in Seattle. Then a plane. The plane flies six hours. Then a car from Boston to the Kennebec River. Another two hours. If there's no traffic."

He paused. His fingers on the wheel tightened slightly.

"Eleven hours. Maybe fourteen. All together."

Molly sat still. Her hands lay on her knees. She looked at the water ahead of the boat. Her face was turned to the sun. A drop of sweat glistened on her cheek.

She said. Her voice was even.

"The orca swam away."

Her father didn't answer. He stood at the wheel. His eyes were hidden behind dark glasses. His left hand left the throttle. It fell to his side. His fingers relaxed.

Molly sat on the seat. Her back was straight. Her feet didn't touch the deck. The heels of her sandals hung in the air. She swung her legs once. Right and left. Then stopped.

She turned her head. She looked toward the island. The green mass lay on the water. Seagulls circled above it. The seagulls were white. They moved in circles. Slowly, soundlessly.

She didn't turn to her father. She looked at the island. Light fell on her face. Drops glistened on her upper lip. She didn't wipe them.

The wind blew stronger. A wave rocked the boat. The boat listed an inch to starboard. Then righted itself. Molly didn't move.

Her hands lay on her knees. Her fingers were clenched into fists. Her knuckles were white.

She looked at the water.

Her father stood at the wheel. His right hand held the wheel. His fingers were bent. He wasn't turning it. He stood motionless. His chest rose and fell. Beneath his white shirt, the movement was steady.

A minute passed. Then another.

The water under the boat was dark blue. Light reflected from the surface. It trembled. Small sparkles moved across the water. They appeared and disappeared.

Molly opened her mouth. She took a breath. Air filled her lungs. She closed her mouth. She didn't say a word.

She clenched the fingers of her left hand into a fist. Then opened them. She placed her palm back on her knee.

The wind blew from the west. It carried the smell of seaweed and salt. The fabric of her T-shirt fluttered on her shoulders. She didn't adjust it.

The sun stood high. There was no shadow under the boat.

Her father turned the ignition key. The motor hummed. Vibration traveled through the deck. It reached the seat. Molly felt it through her shorts. Through the rubber soles of her sandals.

He took the throttle. He didn't press it. He held the lever in his palm.

He said. His voice was low.

"We'll go soon."

Molly sat still. She looked at the island. Her head was turned to the right. Her neck was straight. The muscles in her neck were tense.

She didn't answer. She looked at the water. At the green shore. At the seagulls.

Her father didn't move. His hand lay on the throttle. His fingers gripped it. His knuckles were white.

The sun stood overhead. There was no shadow. Only light falling from above, white and dense. It filled the boat from bow to stern.

Molly sat still. Her fingers lay on her knee. She wasn't clenching them. She looked at the water.

The water was empty.

Her father pushed the throttle. The motor hummed deeper. The bow rose. Water began to part before the hull. White foam ran from bow to sides.

Molly sat still. Her hands lay on her knees. She looked at the water. The water moved beneath her. She didn't turn her head.

The boat turned right. Her father turned the wheel. His right hand moved slowly. The wheel creaked once. The boat settled on a new course. The bow pointed toward the shore. Toward the dock where other boats lay. White and blue hulls rocking at wooden pilings.

He eased the throttle. The motor quieted to a steady purr. The boat slowed. The water stopped foaming at the bow. It slid across the surface. Slowly. Waves lifted and lowered the hull.

Molly clenched the fingers of her left hand. She clenched them into a fist. Then opened them. She did it twice. Three times.

Her father looked ahead. His left hand lay on his knee. His fingers were open. He wasn't looking at Molly.

The boat approached the dock. The wooden planks were gray. Shadows from neighboring boats lay on them. Her father turned the wheel left. The hull touched the dock bumper. Rubber compressed under the weight. The boat stopped.

He stood from the seat. He stepped over the gunwale onto the dock. The planks creaked under his weight. He bent down. His fingers closed around the mooring line. He wrapped it around the iron bollard. Once. Twice. He tightened the knot. His fingers worked fast. They knew the movement.

He straightened. He reached out his hand to Molly. His palm was open. His fingers were slightly bent.

She didn't take his hand. She stood from the seat. She stepped over the gunwale. Her sandals touched the wooden planks. She walked forward along the dock. She didn't look back.

Her father lowered his hand. He walked behind her. His steps were slow. The soles of his moccasins tapped on the wood. A soft tap. Steady.

They walked along the dock. The planks were hot. They smelled of resin and salt. Molly walked straight. Her back was straight. Her arms hung at her sides. She looked ahead.

They walked onto the concrete embankment. The concrete was gray and cracked. Grass grew in the cracks. Dry and yellow. She stepped on it. The grass crunched under her sandals.

Her father turned left. He walked to the car. The car was white. It stood in the hotel parking lot. The front wheel was turned right. Light shone on the side window.

He opened the door. The handle was metal. It clicked. He pulled it open. He waited.

Molly walked to the back door. She took the handle. The brass was hot. She pulled. The door opened. She sat on the back seat. The fabric of the seat was warm. She closed the door. The thud was dull.

He sat behind the wheel. He closed the door. He turned the ignition key. The engine started. Vibration traveled through the wheel. He took the gearshift. He shifted it. The car moved forward.

He drove out of the lot. The wheels crunched on gravel. He turned right. The car went along the road. The road ran along the bay. The water was on the left. Blue and glittering.

Molly sat in the back seat. She wasn't looking out the window. She was looking at the back of the front seat. The fabric was gray. There were stains on it. Dark stains. She counted them. One, two, three.

Her father looked at the road. His hands lay on the wheel. His fingers gripped it. He didn't speak.

The car passed a store. The sign was red. It had white letters. A fishing tackle shop. A boat on a trailer stood in front of it. White with a blue stripe.

He turned left. The road went uphill. The asphalt was dark. It had cracks. The car bounced in a pothole. One. Two. Three.

Molly put her hands on her knees. She clenched her fingers. She looked out the window. Outside the window were trees. Pines and firs. Dark green. Between them the water showed. Blue and distant.

He pressed the brake. The car stopped at a gate. The gate was red and white. Beyond it was a dock. A big dock. A ferry stood there. White and tall. On its side, black letters spelled a name.

He rolled down the window. He reached out. He gave a ticket to a man in uniform. The man took the ticket. He nodded. The gate rose.

He drove onto the ferry. The wheels thudded on the metal deck. The sound was hollow. He stopped the car. He killed the engine. Silence returned. Only the hum of the ferry and the cries of seagulls.

He got out of the car. He closed the door. The thud was dull. He walked around the car. He opened the back door.

He said. His voice was low.

"Get out. Let's go on deck."

Molly got out of the car. She stepped onto the metal deck. The metal was warm. There were tire tracks on it. She followed him. He walked ahead. Up the stairs. The steps were metal. They rang underfoot.

They went up to the top deck. The wind was strong. It blew from the bay. Molly's hair flew out. She held it with her hand. She stood at the railing. The metal was cold. She put her elbows on it.

Her father stood beside her. He leaned on the railing. His hands lay on the metal. He looked at the water. The water was blue. The ferry began to pull away from the dock. The lines tightened. Water began to foam at the side.

He said. His voice was quiet. It couldn't be heard over the wind.

"An hour and forty. Then the car to the airport."

Molly didn't answer. She looked at the water. At the shore receding. The houses grew smaller. The trees merged into a green band.

The ferry ran steady. The water parted at the bow. White foam ran to the sides. Seagulls followed the ferry. They cried. Short, sharp sounds.

She stood still. Her fingers gripped the railing. She didn't turn to him.

The wind died for a second. Then blew again. Stronger.

She said. Her voice was quiet. But audible.

"Did Mommy wait on the ferry too? When she went to Grandma's?"

He didn't answer at once. His hands lay on the railing. His fingers were open. He looked at the water.

He said. His voice was even.

"She took the train. The train goes to Portland. From there a bus."

She didn't answer. She looked at the water. At the seagulls. At the horizon.

The ferry hummed. A deep, low sound. It came from the engine room. Vibration rose through the deck. It was felt in the feet.

He turned to her. He looked down at her. His lips were pressed together.

He said.

"You'll see Mommy soon."

She didn't turn. She looked ahead. At the water. At the line where sky met sea.

Time passed. The sun moved across the sky. Shadows on the deck shifted. They grew longer.

The ferry slowed. The hum of the motor grew quieter. Its bow turned right. Ahead, a dock appeared. Wood and concrete. Cars stood on it. People.

He said. His voice was louder. To carry over the noise.

"We're here. Let's go."

He walked to the stairs. His steps were quick. She followed. Her sandals tapped on the metal. She didn't fall behind.

They got in the car. He started the engine. He drove off the ferry. The wheels thudded onto the concrete. He turned right. The road went through town. The houses were low. White and yellow. Traffic lights stood at corners. Red. Yellow. Green.

He drove onto the highway. The road was straight. Cars moved fast. Wind whistled through the gaps in the windows. He looked ahead. His hands lay on the wheel.

Molly sat in the back seat. She looked out the window. Outside the window were fields. Green and yellow. Hay bales. Stacked in piles. Black birds sat on the wires.

She asked. Her voice was loud. To carry over the road noise.

"How much longer to the airport?"

He looked in the rearview mirror. In the glass, her face was reflected. Sweat glistened on her forehead.

He said.

"Forty minutes. Then the plane."

She turned back to the window. She looked at the fields. At the sky. At the clouds. They were white and puffy. They moved slowly.

The highway widened. More lanes. Traffic denser. He merged into the left lane. The turn signal clicked. He pressed the gas. The car accelerated.

The road went down. There was a building ahead. Glass and tall. There were letters on it. Airport.

He stopped at the terminal. He cut the engine. He got out of the car. He opened the trunk. He took out a bag. Dark blue. With a strap.

She got out of the car. She stood on the sidewalk. The concrete was gray. There were gum stains on it. Dark and flat.

He said. His voice was level.

"Come on."

They went into the building. Glass doors slid apart. The air inside was cold. The air conditioner hummed. It smelled of coffee and plastic. People walked past. With suitcases. With bags.

He walked up to the check-in counter. He put the bag on the floor. He took out the tickets. The paper was white. With blue letters.

He said to the woman behind the counter. His voice was quiet.

"Two tickets. To Boston."

The woman took the tickets. She looked at the screen. She typed something. The keys clicked.

She said. Her voice was high and quick.

"Gate 14. Boarding in an hour."

He took the tickets. He put them in his pocket. He picked up the bag. He walked toward the gate. She walked behind him.

They sat down on a bench. The metal seats were cold. The armrests were smooth. He put the bag on his knees. She sat next to him. She folded her hands on her knees. She looked at the floor. The floor was tiled. White and gray.

He said. His voice was low.

"We board in an hour. The flight takes six hours."

She didn't answer. She looked at the floor. At her sandals. At the straps. They were white. There was dirt on one. A brown streak.

He sat still. His hands rested on the bag. His fingers were open. He looked at the board. The board was black. White letters glowed on it. Gate 14. Departure time.

She raised her head. She looked at him. His face was turned toward the board. She looked at his profile. At the line of his jaw. At the crease by his mouth.

She said. Her voice was level.

"Will we make it in time for dinner?"

He turned his head. He looked at her. His eyes were hidden behind his glasses. His lips moved.

He said.

"We will. If the flight isn't delayed."

She turned away. She looked at the windows. Beyond them was the sky. Blue and clear. An airplane moved along the taxiway. White with a red stripe.

He stood up. He picked up the bag. He said.

"Time to go."

She stood up. She followed him. They walked through a corridor. The walls were gray. There were posters on them. With views of cities. The Golden Gate. The Statue of Liberty.

He showed the tickets. A woman in uniform nodded. She pointed to the gangway.

They entered the plane. The cabin was narrow. The seats were blue. He found their places. By the window. He put the bag in the overhead bin. He sat by the aisle. She sat by the window.

She looked out the porthole. The wing was gray. There were rivets on it. Rows of rivets. She counted them.

The plane began to move. The engine hummed. Vibration ran through the floor. She felt it through her soles. Through the seat fabric.

He sat still. His hands rested on the armrests. He looked ahead. At the seatback. At the gray fabric.

The plane turned. The engine hummed louder. The plane began to accelerate. Faster. Faster. The wheels left the ground. The nose lifted.

The ground fell away below. Houses grew smaller. Roads became thin lines. The sea was blue. It stretched to the horizon.

She looked down. Her hands rested on her knees. She did not clench them.

He sat still. His eyes were closed. He was not asleep. His chest rose and fell.

The plane gained altitude. Clouds were below them. White and dense. They covered the ground.

She looked at the clouds. She did not turn her head.

Time passed. The plane hummed steadily. A stewardess walked down the aisle. She carried a tray. On it were glasses. With water and juice.

She said. Her voice was loud and clear.

"What would you like to drink?"

He opened his eyes. He looked at the stewardess. He said.

"Water."

She looked at the stewardess. She said. Her voice was quiet.

"Juice. Apple."

The stewardess handed them the glasses. He took the water. She took the juice. The glass was cold. There were drops of condensation on it.

She raised the glass to her lips. She drank. The juice was sweet. Cold. She put the glass on the armrest.

He held the glass in his hand. He did not drink. He looked ahead.

The plane hummed steadily. The vibration was constant. Shadows from clouds moved across the wing. They appeared and disappeared.

She looked out the porthole. The clouds below grew sparse. The ground appeared. Green and brown. Rivers glittered in the sun. Thin silver lines.

He said. His voice was low.

"Boston soon."

She did not answer. She looked down. At the rivers. At the roads. At the small houses.

The plane began to descend. The engine hummed quieter. The nose dropped. The ground approached. Houses grew larger. Roads grew wider.

The wheels touched the runway. The impact was dull. The plane rolled. Brakes squealed. It slowed. It stopped at the terminal.

He stood up. He took the bag. He said.

"Come on."

She stood up. She followed him. They walked through a corridor. The walls were white. The floor was carpeted. Green.

They left the building. The air was warm. Humid. It smelled of gasoline and grass. He walked to the parking lot. To the car. White. It stood in its spot.

He opened the door. He sat behind the wheel. She sat in the back. He started the engine. He pulled onto the road.

He turned onto the highway. The road was wide. Cars moved fast. Signs pointed north. I-95.

He pressed the gas. The car accelerated. Wind whistled through the gaps. He looked at the road. At the markings. White lines stretched ahead.

Molly sat in the back seat. She looked out the window. Outside there were buildings. Old brick houses. Then fields. Green and brown.

She asked. Her voice was quiet.

"How much longer?"

He looked in the rearview mirror. His eyes met hers. He said.

"Two hours. If there's no traffic."

She looked away. She looked at the road. At the trees. At the utility poles with wires.

He drove. His hands rested on the wheel. His fingers were curved. He changed to the left lane. Passed a truck. The truck was green. It had white letters on it.

She rested her head against the window. The glass was warm. There were fly specks on it. Little dots.

The road went straight. Trees stood on both sides. Pines and maples. Here and there houses appeared. White with green roofs.

He said. His voice was quiet. Almost a whisper.

"There will be a bridge soon. Over the river."

She did not answer. She looked out the window. At the sky. It was beginning to darken. The blue grew deeper.

He slowed down. The car approached the bridge. Metal trusses rose upward. They were gray and rusty. The wheels thumped over the joints. A rhythmic thumping.

The water under the bridge was dark. Wide. Lights reflected on it. Yellow and white.

He crossed the bridge. The road went through woods. Tree shadows fell on the asphalt. They moved as the car went.

She looked at the shadows. At the light that filtered through the leaves.

He said. His voice was louder.

"In twenty minutes there's an exit. Then another ten minutes to the house."

She did not answer. She looked at the road. At the lane markings. White and yellow.

He pressed the brake. The car slowed. He turned right. Onto the exit ramp. The road grew narrower. The asphalt was uneven. The car bounced over potholes.

He said. His voice was low.

"Almost there."

She looked ahead. Through the windshield. There was a turn ahead. Beyond it a house could be seen. A dark silhouette. Against the light sky.

She did not move. Her hands rested on her knees.

He slowed down. The car approached the turn. The wheels crunched on gravel.

He turned the wheel.

The house came into full view. Two stories, white, with green shutters. Light burned on the porch. Yellow and warm.

He stopped the car. The engine went quiet. Silence returned. Only birds sang somewhere in the woods. And the wind stirred the leaves.

He sat still. His hands rested on the wheel. He looked at the house.

She sat in the back seat. She looked at the porch. At the door. At the windows. Light burned in one of them.

She did not move.

He opened the door. It creaked. He got out of the car. He closed the door. The thud was dull.

He walked around the car. He opened the back door. He stood, holding the door open. He looked at her.

He said. His voice was quiet.

"We're here."

The car stood with the engine off. The rear window was rolled down two inches. The air outside was damp, smelled of cut grass and river water. Father held the door open. His left hand rested on the roof edge, his right hand gripped the door handle. His fingers were curled, the knuckles white. Light from the house fell on his shoulder, leaving a yellow rectangle on his white shirt.

Molly sat in the back seat. Her hands rested on her knees. She looked at the house. A lamp burned on the porch. Beneath the lamp hung a chain with a small glass globe. The wind swung the chain, and the globe turned, catching the light.

She turned her head to the right. A firefly sat on the porch railing. Its abdomen glowed green. The light flashed and faded at two-second intervals. The firefly raised its wings. The wings were transparent, with dark veins. It flew off. Its flight path was erratic, zigzagging. It flew past the window and disappeared around the corner of the house.

Molly clenched her fingers on her knees. She leaned back against the seat. The seat was warm from her body. She straightened up. She placed her right foot on the asphalt, then her left. The soles of her sandals touched the gravel. Gravel crunched under her weight. She stood up. She walked past Father. Her shoulder brushed his arm. She did not stop. She walked toward the corner of the house, where the firefly had disappeared.