When I was fourteen, my little sister, Coco, told me she believed our father was having an affair.
The swimming pool hadn’t been cleaned yet that year, and the water was verdigris green. I sat on the side with my legs in the pool, watching Coco hold her breath near the bottom, which was covered in rotten leaves. The water was cold because it was only June and the heater wasn’t working. While I was distracted by a maple leaf floating by, my sister swam up and touched my ankle, startling me.
“Frank,” she said, “how long was that?”
