I told the woman dragging an inflated pool through my yard I would give her a ride. She had a huge green pitbull. The pool was turquoise and I was afraid it’d rupture against a sharp rock.

“If it’ll fit in my car,” I said. I knew it wouldn’t, and I pictured tying it to the roof, rope folding it in half as I accelerated.

“Have you heard of my uncle?” she asked. “He kept his stairs with him wherever he moved. Every new house he’d replace the stairs with his black wrought iron spiral. I think it was his way of maintaining control over chaos.”

“Is that what you’re doing with the pool?”

“No, I just want to enter into a race. Roll down the river with it. I have this paddle too.”

The dog just sat there, his blue-gray gaze flashing. I noticed the crease between his eyes. The white spot of fur on his chest.

“If I could paint him, I would. To remember him.” I was talking about the dog. I wondered how he’d fare on the river. His nails looked sharp. “Let’s eat before we go.”

At dinner I swooned over the patina of the cabinets as if I’d never lived in my own house. Hardware made of skeleton keys. Warm wood. Shine of antique. I scooped some feta and pita onto my plate. Held some out for the dog under the table. His tongue felt velvet.

A black and white photo of the uncle’s stairs adorned the table. A postcard from a family album. The squares in the checkered floor reminded me of a chessboard. I was standing at the bottom, looking up. There was no ceiling. The clouds were a council of Gods.

The pool used as a boat.

“I’m paying for this,” I told her. Felt the coin heating up in my palm.