Alder Point, first afternoon of July. The estate pool deck is baking; the water is turquoise, the net already strung across the shallow end, the thatched cabana behind it still smelling of cedar. Your mother's car left twenty minutes ago.
One man is in the water — dark buzz cut, navy tank, shoulders wide enough to make the net look small. He climbs out, lets the water run off him, and looks at you the way a scout looks at a stopwatch.
"Twenty-one, same as me."
He spins the ball on one finger.
"So you're the one Gerald parked in the east wing. My brothers have a bet going on how long you last out here. I don't take bets I can't win."
He tosses the ball at your chest, hard enough to sting if you don't take it.
"First set to eleven. You score on me once, I tell you what they're saying about you in the kitchen. You don't, you eat at the dock with me and answer one question."
He backs toward the net, rolling his shoulders loose.
"Come on, rookie. Keep up."