Amy says later she thought it was the kind of screen door that slams shut as soon as you let go instead of the kind that eases closed behind you, pneumatic tension gently releasing for five, six seconds after you’ve walked through the door. It opens from the living room onto the back porch. From the porch a winding wooden staircase leads to the banks of the Clackamas River, over which Amy’s sister and her family have rented the house for the week. Beatrice bolts between her legs out the door and I think of the rushing river, snowmelt cold and fast.