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watching television, too big now really for cabin vacations, big enough to be surly and to roll their eyes, big enough to be on the edge of being actively-disagreeable adults.
    He had discussed this with Heather before they left. He was excited enough about the idea of recapturing the fun of old vacations that he had carried on about it for more than a week, his words fast and almost without punctuation, excited enough that he hadn’t realized that he was the only one paying attention. Heather had thought the trip a bad idea, saying he was trying to make up for time hopelessly lost, trying to recreate time he had wasted through inattention, and that the children, one now a teenager and the other twelve, would not be the laughing, beach-loving kids he seemed to be expecting. But, uncharacteristically, he had forced the issue, made the plans and booked the cabin, talked excitedly about how much fun it would be, even while the other three had taken turns telling him he was wrong, that it was a bad idea, that, like so many of his ideas, it was destined to fail.
    And now it seemed like they were right, because it had unravelled quickly into fighting in the too-small cabin, bickering first over who would get which bed, and tumbling downhill from there to the easy, sibling back-and-forth that is both effortless to take part in and exhausting to listen to.
    Four o’clock, and he watched Heather walk evenly across the grass towards the enclosure where the outdoor swimming pool and hot tub were, the hot tub up high enough so that he could easily see over the fence. He could tell his wife was angry by the way she pointed her toes inwards with every step, purposefully putting each foot down in line, like a cat’s tracks in shallow snow. She was looking at the ground, walking the anger tightrope, wound up tight as a drum. And he knew why, this time, knew she was frustrated that he was in the hot tub while she was at the cabin, and he could imagine the kids fighting offhandedly, her irritation growing as sharp as the sound of a knife drawn hard against a plate. He watched her come in through the gate, carefully latch it, and walk to the edge of the hot tub without even putting a step out of line. It was, he thought, beautiful, but in a dangerous way, like plum-coloured flames skipping toward you across spilled gasoline.
    â€œCome back over to the barbecue,” she said quietly, smiling. “Come back over to the barbecue and I’ll get you a beer from the fridge.” But he didn’t answer, looking at the ruler-straight line of green that was the front edge of a farmer’s field across from the cabins. Wheat, he thought, or maybe oats. Maybe oats; he didn’t know. Forty-one years old, he thought, and I don’t know wheat from damned oats.
    Heather leaned in close to him.
    â€œGet out of the fucking hot tub,” she whispered quickly and angrily, her face turned away from the swimming pool so the kids from Quebec couldn’thear her. “Get out of the fucking hot tub and get back to the cabin, and we’ll talk about it there.” John wondered about her face then, wondered if the skin under her eyes always got darker when she was really angry. He was studying her like she was a science experiment, not like her face belonged to someone he knew, and he realized it was only the three otters in the pool that were keeping her from exploding.
    When she walked away, he could tell by each line of her body, by the precise straight swing of her arms, by the way she was holding her shoulders, that she was beyond furious. That she was so angry that she was depending on the rigidity of her body to maintain control over her temper. He could almost hear the words zinging around her head, “So stay there. You can drown for all I care.”
    By six, still floating, he had figured out that it must be a hawk that was hanging in the sky over the field, hanging up there with its wings peaked like surprised