Juliet and I are walking the long sandbank in the lazy turn of the stream far below the house. The light is dappled here, partitioned and slotted by the leaves in the trees above, sending down thin beams where it is dim enough for the motes to glow in the light. Juliet is behind me when I hear her squeal and then splash into the stream.

I turn; I find her sprawled leftward with her arms in the stream, shaking her head. The tips of her hair have become wet. She sits up and checks her hands for damage. I see none. I ask her if she is alright.

"Your footsteps," she says. "I was walking in your footsteps." The most recent examples have been scuffed somewhat, so she points down the sand a bit. "Did you know you walk in a straight line? It made me fall over."

"What?" I look where she is pointing.

"You put," she says, "one foot right in front of the other. It's maddening. I can't do it for long." She brushes sand from herself.

I look up the bar to where we had been, and there are my feet, one after another, in a slightly weaving line. Farther back there is a another set of prints to one side and then the other, finally mixing in with mine. The prints end here at my feet. I help Juliet up.

"There used to be a book," I tell her. "When I was little, I liked to read a book about the Indians of America." I stop a bit, it was long ago, and difficult. "The book said they walked in straight lines, one foot right in front of the other. The book said they did this to walk quietly through the woods, like ghosts." I look at my feet. My toes used to point out, but they point in now. I do not know why. "I wanted to do that, too, then. I spent a summer learning, walking through the woods in a straight line, one foot in front of the other, always."

She rubs the water from her arms, and holds herself a moment. "Go on," she says, nodding up the stream. "I need practice."