I do not remember the sound I made.

I remember the dizziness, the sudden need to hold on to something solid, the edge of the table under my hands.

I remember Abigail’s arms coming around my shoulders, and her voice saying Mom, Mom, over and over.

One adult man and three young boys.

The words did not fully arrive at first.

One adult man.

Three young boys.

It is a measure of how long I had lived inside the official story that my mind’s first move was to reject the obvious — surely a coincidence, surely some other man, some other boys, on a lake that saw hundreds of boats.