I kept circling it on the drive to Zachary’s, worrying it like a stone in my pocket.

A vest does not evaporate.

It had come to the lake — the receipt proved that — and it had not come home, and it had not been found in the water with the rest of the recovered gear, which meant it had gone somewhere, done something, ended up on someone.

Every explanation I could build led to a door I was afraid to open, and every one of them led, I already half knew, away from the empty accident the officials had handed me and toward something I did not yet have the shape of but could feel gathering, enormous, just out of sight.

“Thank you,” I managed to say.