They were the first words my son had said since the afternoon of his fifth birthday on the bank of the Blackwood River.

Zane’s hand slid off the back of the chair.

His elbow knocked his heavy water glass, sending it spinning across the linen until it smashed on the floor.

My mother gasped and clapped both hands over her mouth.

My father went still with his pipe raised halfway to his chin.

“Jeremy,” I said, moving toward the table.

“What did you just say?”

Jeremy didn’t look at me.