At the kitchen table, Katie is working on a picture. She's drawing, free-form, and something is coming to light. It's a memory, actually, one that surprises her. A memory from when she was younger, not that her 10 years make her an old-timer. But this memory must have come from a time when she was 3 or so, or not even, and when her father was still around. They were at the river, wading in the water, Katie sitting on his shoulders. Now, if she can just get the face right...

She had been crying that day, the day of the memory. They had a tent set up near the Colorado, and the man was wanted to take Katie out into the sun. But his wife sat back in the tent, face tense, nagging about the mosquitoes and the dirt and her hair and whatever unrelated shit she could throw at him. The man took his daughter in a huff. He'd forgotten to pack Katie's special lunch, the woman snapped. Oh, big deal, she could eat some of their food. But the woman would not stop. She was relentless. And Katie's crying was relentless. And he knew right then what he would do--he would pack up and go, as he'd done in the past. When things got hot, he would drop it all and take off, like it was nothing.

But then he looked into Katie's face. His daughter, something that he and the woman had created of themselves. The thought suddenly struck him, and it was amazing. It was proof to him, suddenly, that there is something, something, something out there.

He took Katie, walked out into the water. The young girl at first cried even harder, seeing the water coming up at her. But then...all became quiet. Even the birds and crickets and other nature bugs stopped; it was a universal hush. Katie was at peace there, up on her father's shoulders, moving slowly, as if in a dance, into the water.

He went right up to his waist, even with his pants on. His watch got wet, but the man didn't care. Shoes, pants, belt, button-up shirt--let it all soak. And then Katie giggled, closed her eyes, face turned up to the sun.

Now Katie colors in her father's hair. She's nearly got the face done, the way she remembers it (or thinks she remembers it--her memories of him come mainly through old photographs). It is nighttime, and she will have to get to bed soon. But she first wants to finish up this drawing. Because then she will have a beginning. She'll frame the picture and take it with her everywhere, even when things go bad, too bad for carrying around old memories. She'll take it with her, and years from now, she'll return to it--and begin her search.