“(After Gerry fell overboard and they set sail)“Dad.” I held my teeth tight. “I guess you forgot. Planning this whole trip, I would have thought you’d remember, but I guess you didn’t.” I looked at Dad again. He was watching the sail. “Dad,” I said, “Gerry can’t swim. Remember?”

“Ben,” Dad snarled. He was tired. “Life jacket and safety harness. Always. When you’re alone on deck at night, we’d never know if you fell off. You’d be left behind. We’d never find you.”“Doesn’t sound so bad,” I said.”

“Gerry breathed loudly and slowly. “Dylan,” he said accusingly, “that was a sad story.”“Not it’s not. It’s a happy story. It’s about a mom who loved her baby very much.”“But she’s gone,” Gerry said in a very little voice.“That doesn’t mean she loves you any less,” Dylan said.”

“I wished we had milk – milk for strong bones. Dylan said he would eat the fish bones if I would quit talking about milk.”

“What’s up?” I said.“Nothing.”“I mean what’s wrong?”“My leg is broken.”“Yeah, I noticed.”

“I thought that it was possible at a time like that to cry. There was a switch inside somewhere, and a person could just decide to flip it and start crying. Maybe it looked and felt like the toggle switch on the engine. Silver and smooth. One direction was on; the other direction was off. Easy to flip. You do it without looking. Up -- you’re happy and strong. Down – you’re crying and weak.”

“Sometimes when you read a book or watch a TV show, you see the people and you think, Don’t do that. Don’t open that door. Don’t answer that phone. You know everything is about to change. “Stop!” you want to say. “Rewrite the story. Rewind the tape. Don’t let it happen that way.” But you can’t. The people always open the door or answer the phone. The bad thing always happens, and there is nothing you can do about it.”