“Can you swim?” she asked. “Yes. Technically. Not well. But yes.” “You take a lot of words to say very little.” “You’ve met my editor.” “I swim. In the mornings. Around seven. At Jacob Riis. There’s a lone, bizarrely twisted pine tree at the far end of the parking lot. Meet there.” She shrugged again. “If you want.” “Swim in the ocean? At this time of year?”
