But even as I reached for the coincidence I knew.

I had known, somewhere, from the moment the question that would not rest first began scratching.

The shape that had never fit the hole was turning, slowly, in the air of that small kitchen, and I could feel it, at last, about to drop into place.

On that water.

On that afternoon.

Pulling a drowning old man and his grandson out of a lake in a sudden storm.

I had spent six years asking how a man as careful as Lucas could have let his boat be caught in rough water far from shore.