When Andrew Roark came home after a twelve-hour electrical job, he found a thin little boy sitting beneath the maple tree in his yard. The boy lifted his head, and Andrew dropped his tool belt into the grass. It was Harry — his son, the child everyone said had drowned five years ago. But when Andrew held him, Harry whispered, “Dad, it wasn’t an accident.”

“Every day. Even after they told me to stop.”

Harry threw the stone.

It skipped once and sank.

Then Andrew asked the question he had been carrying since the night before.

“Did your mom ever come to Grandma Betty’s house?”

Harry did not answer right away.

The wind moved his hair across his forehead.

“I heard her voice sometimes,” he said.

Andrew kept his face still.

“Upstairs?”

Harry nodded.

“She and Grandma talked about money. Grandma said she was running out. Mom said she would figure something out.”

Andrew’s hands curled inside his jacket pockets.

“Anything else?”

Harry stared at the water.

“She came down once. About a year ago.”

Andrew stopped breathing for a moment.

“I pretended to be asleep,” Harry said. “She stood on the stairs. Grandma asked if she wanted to talk to me. Mom said no.”

His voice cracked.

“She said I looked fine.”

Andrew closed his eyes.

Behind his eyelids, he saw Mary standing at Harry’s funeral.

Mary taking his hand.

Mary telling him they had to accept the truth.

Mary signing papers.

Mary putting flowers on a grave that did not hold their son.

When Andrew opened his eyes, Harry was watching him.