March in St. Ignace looked like God kicked over a bucket of gray paint and spilled it over the sun. Lake Huron was dark as root beer, and Amelia’s ears were so cold they burned. Dad picked up a black stone, shiny from the rain, and turned it in his hand. He stared at it as though he searched for something far off even though it was right in front of him. “There are three things you can’t take back, Amelita,” he said. “A moment once it’s missed, a word once it’s spoken, and a stone once it’s thrown.” He twisted back and threw the rock. It skipped over the water three or four times, leaving a trail of ripples everywhere it touched, before sinking.