If Vivian expected, about ten minutes later, to be seated on Mom and Dad's sofa, sipping a hot cuppa my mother pressed into her hands, listening as I outlined to the gathering (funny how easy it was to assemble my posse and yet so heartening, at the same time) exactly what I remembered about the day Victor French died.

I relived it in an under layer of memory that revealed further truths as I spoke, flashing to the water, so cold, Victor sinking. And Victor, eyes ...