He steps onto the pier, fists clenched at his sides, careful of the wide gaps between planks, where he sees the restless gray-green water. Clutched in his palm is a chunk of purple agate, bought just now, when they’d gotten off the bus. Tess bought one too, smaller, more smoothed than his—it must be in her pocket, because she’s ahead of him, leaping from plank to plank like a ballerina, arms wide, palms open. Her hair, long and tangled, ripples behind her. He’s a better swimmer than Tess, but Tess isn’t afraid of drowning.