William's stretching and shrugging the stiffness from his limbs, marveling at their surroundings all the while. It feels good just to breathe, the air light in his chest like the beginnings of a laugh. It is beautiful—how many times can he be struck by the same thought? Who knows when a person last laid eyes on this, or when they will again.

He turns at the sound of her voice. “Dolores, your shoes,” he says, despairing of himself even as he says it. They're there on the bank of the stream: he picks them up and sets them down again, kicks off his own shoes and wades in.

Unlike her, he stops to scoop a leaf from the water, turning the stem in his fingers. It glitters: of course it does. “What is it?”