“Annalise?” Her sister is standing near. “How come you took off?”

She wipes her eyes. “I don’t know. I’m all right now. Go on. Tell Mom and Dad I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Okay.” Her sister skips toward the row of cabins.

A baby linden leaf drifts toward Annalise and she leans forward, cups her hand, and carries it out. Some of them don’t get to grow up. She places the leaf on her open palm and smooths it from edge to edge. A few geese fly overhead, flapping and squawking. The long reeds bend in the breeze and graze my surface. I hear laughter; two teenage boys are playing on my shore.

I wait.

The geese are long gone, black smudges far off in the sky, when Annalise says, “Why?” Her voice cracks, like a branch splitting from a tree. “Why, Renn? Why did someone abandon me?”

She’s asked before. On her found days. After a ragged puppy was discovered wandering alone by my shore. Sometimes, strangely, on moonless nights. I always send soft, calming ripples but I never have an answer. After all this time, there is much I don’t understand about people.

Annalise returns the leaf to my surface and I guide it gently on its way. We spend a few minutes in silence. A cloud moves across the sun, and she and I share the shade.

“Mrs. Alden’s gone now,” she whispers. “I can’t talk to her, if I ever wanted to. She’s the only one who might’ve seen….”

My old heart aches. I dig through my treasures—there are many that have sunk to the bottom—keys, sunglasses, fossils, lots of canoe paddles. Things that were accidentally dropped into my wide-open arms, never to be seen again.

I can’t offer her something special like my distant relatives Pacific and Atlantic. They could give her a whole peachy-white conch shell or a pointy shark’s tooth. But I give her what I have. I bubble up an arrowhead and deposit it right by her knees.

Her face brightens as she picks it up. “Wow!” she says. “Look at this!”

I flow in delight.

She leaps up and runs toward the cabins. I watch as she flings open the door to the office and shows the arrowhead to her parents. Her dad whistles, her mom oohs and aahs, then taps her finger on the tip.

“Let me see,” Jess says, leaning in. “Cool, but I’m sure there’s tons of arrowheads out there.”

Not true. That was my only one.

Annalise’s mom envelops her in a hug. I imagine their two hearts pressing together, each hearing the other’s.

Tru and I have had many discussions about hearts. We have a simple one, directly in the deepest center, requiring only sunlight and oxygen to keep it going. People, I know, have a more complex heart. Ventricles, atriums, interconnected valves and muscles. And four separate chambers. Four, like the seasons, the winds, and the wings on a bumblebee.

I’ve thought long and hard about those four heart chambers. A brilliant design. If one should break, as it must have for Annalise when she was first told about being abandoned, there are still three others to rely on. But what about me and Tru, with our simple heart? What if it breaks?

“Tru?” I call softly.

No answer.

“Tru? Can you hear me?”

Tru is sluggish and steamy today. My cousin’s a moody river, impulsive, changing course without warning. If Tru doesn’t feel like talking, there’s a quiet, empty space between us.

Lately, I’ve been feeling warm too. The rain was heavy last night. An angry storm, sending debris and branches into my waters, ripping them into sharp fragments of driftwood.

When people are too warm, they jump in from the pier, wanting me to cool their reddened skin. But I’ve wondered, what will cool me if I stay this warm?

The days are getting longer now. The pines are shedding their brittle needles and the lindens are caring for their young saplings. Soon, people will fill up my shore from end to end. I rustle my ancient, watery bones. Time to get ready for summer.