Maya did not look at me when she slid the metal zipper shut on her blue nylon backpack.
I was slicing yellow apples at the kitchen counter, keeping the paring knife close to my thumb.
She tugged at her left earlobe, her fingers red from the morning chill.
“You need to eat something before you and your uncle get on the water,” I said.
She did not answer, only pushed a stray lock of brown hair behind her ear.
I set three slices of apple on a cracked ceramic saucer and pushed them toward her across the clean oilcloth.
The kitchen smelled of damp cedar from the kindling box by the stove.
I poured boiling water over two spoonfuls of the instant coffee that cost four dollars a jar, stirring it with a silver-plated spoon.
The metal spoon made a thin, hollow clicking against the side of the mug.
“Is Daniel bringing the small life vest?” I asked.
“He has the orange one in the truck,” Maya said in a soft, breathless rush.
She zipped her bag again, though it was already closed.
I rubbed my gold wedding band, feeling the thin spot where the metal had worn down over forty years of cooking and washing.
“You have been quiet this morning, Maya.”
She looked down at her sneakers, her laces tied in tight, double knots.
“Just thinking about the river,” she said.
She took one slice of the apple but did not bite into it.
“The water will be cold today,” I said, waiting for her to look up.
She kept her eyes on the floor, her fingers working the edge of her backpack strap.
“I know,” she said.
We walked out to the driveway together at quarter past eight.
Daniel was already lifting the heavy red kayak onto the rack of his truck.
I carried the red plastic paddle, the one that had cost forty-five dollars at the hardware store three summers ago.
Near the top of the blade, Maya’s name was written in faded black marker, the letters almost gone from the river water.
Daniel did not look up when we approached, his hands busy with the yellow tie-down straps.
