The summer he left her, he slept at his parents’ in his childhood bed and ran around the lake each night—escaping it. Missed calls piled up. He listened to voicemails breathlessly under a willow. You can just come back, she said. All he was was sorry. A few laps more and sorry would burn like lactic acid. He returned to the tree, arriving and leaving again and again. Two ducks swam, pecking at water for unseen things. He watched them. She would fly away somewhere for something, come back. The other would fly off, too—but she knew he’d come back.