She came back on a Thursday. It wasn't the plan. The plan had been one visit, a follow-up call, a piece of roughly twelve hundred words with a photograph of Edmund at his window — the same composition as the 2009 image, she'd thought, a kind of rhyme across time. Her editor would have liked that. Something about continuity, about craft persisting. But she'd driven home with her recorder full and her notes sparse and the map of Carros Bay printed somewhere behind her eyes, and she'd sat at her kitchen table that night with her grandmother's photograph in her hand — the one that showed the lower street before the flood, the bakery, the painted boats — and she'd thought: he drew the boats. She hadn't remembered noticing that until she was already home. She called ahead this time. He answered on the second ring, which seemed fast for a man who lived the way he lived. "I have a question," she said. "Yes," he said. A pause. "Thursday is fine." He was making something when she arrived — she