He's all chubby cheeks and dark curls, barefoot in the grass, clutching a half-deflated balloon like it's treasure. The bubble he'd been chasing pops against his nose.

You lift the little plastic wand from the table beside your lounge chair, dip it into the soapy bottle. The lemonade in your other hand sweats in the heat, ice clinking.

He's appeared without a sound—the way he always does. His jacket's gone, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a glass of water forgotten in his other hand. His tie hangs loose. There's a faint sheen of sweat at his collar.

He dips the wand, blows a slow, steady stream. A cascade of iridescent bubbles drifts toward Theodore.