Amy’s sister and her family have rented a house in Estacada overlooking the Clackamas River. Amy and I take the day off work to drive out and spend the day with them, bring along our new puppy Beatrice for Amy’s niece and nephew to meet. A screen door lets out from the living room onto the back porch, from there a winding wooden staircase leads to the banks of the rushing river, and 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, seven seconds after you’ve walked through the door.