The ice had a crack in it now.

And under the crack, I could feel how much cold water there was, and how long we had both been standing on it, pretending it would hold.

That is the thing no one warns you about, reconnecting with someone who shares your childhood: they are the only other person alive who was in the room.

Terry knew about the derby car and the too-thin sanding and the tears because he had been standing right there, eight and nine years old, in this kitchen, forty years ago.

There is no one else on earth I can say remember the sprinkler to and have them actually remember the sprinkler — the specific one, the green plastic one that whipped back and forth and that our father hooked up on the hottest days, the exact sound it made, the way the grass smelled.