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and dancing from its corner, and a hand and face appeared.
    â€œYou all right, son?” a voice called. “We’ll get you a towline.”
    The shore was visible. The wind was beating them onto the beach.
    â€œI’m okay,” he called. “I live right here. We’re almost on the beach.” He pointed.
    There was some rapid movement under the canvas, and the engines throttled up. They shouted something he couldn’t make out. The boat slipped away, farther out, and turned and edged back in. Its bow rose against the side of the sailboat, the prow leaning out of the rain alongside him over the sailboat’s hull, and the engine roared briefly, surging them forward. They were giving him a push. He pulled the rudder around, spinning the nose into the shore, and waved. The little motorboat gave a blast of its air horn and disappeared into the darkness.
    He was off the hull, shoulder-deep in the warm water, wading in. The boat was hard to control, his feet braced against barnacled rocks. He struggled and pulled, and when the hull slipped onto shore the water rushed from the downed sails with a torrential noise. He pulled the boat higher and higher and sat down after the final pull exhausted and wet, shaking. Lightning illuminated the sky to the east now, having passed without coming very near. The mast stood outlined against the sky and the sail flapped resolutely as it lost water, flapped as if in response to what had just occurred, and continued to flap, behind him, as he walked up the beach, heavy-legged, and stooped to dig up his towel, water-soaked and sandy, before continuing up the stone steps for home.

Drawing the Walk
    He’s a good kid: there’s no reason to foam at the mouth over all of this. We have to keep some kind of perspective.
    You watch this kid day to day and you’ll see what I mean. He gets up, he enjoys things, he gets along with his sister, he’s got lots of friends, he does well in school. We’re talking about a kid who’s got a lot going for him here. Sure he’s quiet; he’s sensitive. Okay, he’s sensitive. You don’t have to be Kreskin to figure that out. Maybe he gets hurt easier than most kids. But the thing to remember here is not to overreact. If the kid doesn’t have a serious problem we may give him one before we’re through.
    Most of the time we don’t even know what’s going on. We can’t protect him from everything that might upset him. Things stay with him. Whether it’s one thing or another. Everything at home might be all smiles and he might spot a dog outside dragging by on three legs. What are you going to do? How much can you insulate him? For instance: we drove to Florida a few years ago and got off 95 in Georgia because of construction. We took a back road and in the middle of it in front of a gas station we came across this wolfhound or something. It was a big white dog, like a sled dog, really a beautiful animal—dead, on its back, twisted around with its paws in the air. Stiff. Cars were going around it. The guys in the gas station just left it out there. Well, that was it for Biddy’s vacation. We might as well have taken the dog to the beach with us. And I had to go back that way, on the way home, to show him the goddamn thing wasn’t still out there, paws in the air.
    I’m not trying to gloss over anything or say there’s no cause for concern. I’m just saying let’s look at the whole picture here; let’s try and put these things into some kind of context.
    Kristi sat in the bright sunlight by an anthill, scraping a spoon on the pavement, back and forth, back and forth. The sound produced was not in any way musical or pleasant.
    Biddy was at her bedroom window, looking down at her in the middle of the driveway. He looked down without opening the screen, his forehead bumping it a bit. “What’re you doing?” he finally