Chapter 6: The Splinter

Kip took his time answering.

"You told me," he said. "The first winter. You couldn't sleep, and you said it over and over, half asleep. I memorized it."

"I never said it to you."

"You were very tired."

I tried to remember.

I had been in bad shape that winter. I had cried on a lot of nights I didn't remember.

It could be true.

It sounded true, in his level voice.

I knew it wasn't the whole of it.

I stood up too fast and caught the dock rail to steady myself.

A sliver of the wet old wood went into the heel of my palm.

I hissed and pulled my hand back.

"What happened?" Kip said, already on his feet.

"Splinter."

"Let me see."

"You can't touch me," I said. "I made the rule."

He stopped where he was.

"I know," he said. "I'm not going to. I'll go get Monty."

I thought of Monty and a flashlight and an audience.

I thought of Constance coming down in her robe.

"No," I said. "Take it out. I'm asking you."

There was an old lantern in the boathouse, and Kip lit it with a kitchen match from his pocket.

We sat on the bottom step of the dock with the lantern between us.

I held my hand out, palm up.

He bent over it and held back for a moment, because of the rule.

Then he took my wrist in his left hand.

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