One day, we were children. The next day, we were kids, running down to the dock by ourselves. You carried a bowl of strawberries and your raincoat flapped in the wind. Your mother always made you wear a raincoat.

Daisy followed us down to the dock. She was old by then, and you'd never liked her much--not since her flopping, whining puppy years. The dog had a tendency to bark at passing ships, to squeal miserably when you dove into the water and swam further from her sight.

That day, Daisy stood as close to the dock's edge as her fear would allow, while you jumped in. She slipped, maybe. She was old and her legs were unreliable. She disappeared under the water.

You didn't notice, for some reason. I noticed, but I just sat silently. Swinging my legs. Eating the strawberries. Waiting for you to notice.