I’d told Margot Keenan that night at the Cattleman’s—my double-cherry Shirley Temple so pink there on the table in front of us—that I didn’t think I’d ever want to go to Quake Lake, ever. And she’d told me that was fine. She hadn’t even said that maybe I’d change my mind one day, the way adults always talk about stuff like that. She’d just let it be. But now, mostly because of the book, that photo, I had changed my mind.
