She can see them now, waiting, not with her whole eye because her whole eye is looking at the water but still she holds the sight of them in a corner; they are off to the side in the general shape of real people without their distinction but she knows who they are because they are standing where they should be: Mother, brother, father, Mr. and Mrs. Cooley from Utica. She knows without looking with her whole eye how her brother squats next to their mother with his plastic truck and will look up only at a loud noise or an exclamation from someone he knows -- mother or father or Laura herself -- or if someone says she's going. She is not yet afraid he might think she will not jump. She has not yet disproved herself to him. There are signs though in her mother, who knows her in the secret way, the all-day-long everywhere way, and who sees that she hesitates over one or two of her flash cards or maybe she does not put the puzzle of a farm together fast enough? Her brother knows only the chicken so she lets him put that one in every time. He knows that she will jump, that she will push or lean finally in the smallest of ways off the scratchy surface, the jump that is more nearly a fall, and the whistle music going down, and the eye-stinging water, and the semi-submerged too-far-apart rungs. Laura looks all at her mother who it seems has been waiting for this and her mother smiles at her thumbs up but Laura sees underneath the look she has seen before with the flash cards -- she is not so sure of Laura, the look says.