When Lynne saw the lizard floating in her mother-in-law’s swimming pool, she jumped in. And when it wasn’t breathing, its body limp as a baby drunk on milk, she laid it on her palm and pressed one fingertip to its silky breast with just about the force you need to test the ripeness of a peach, only quicker, a brisk little push with a bit of spring in it. Then she knelt, dripping wet in her Doc Martens and camo T-shirt with the neck ripped out, and bent her face to the lizard’s face, her big plush lips to the small stiff jaw that she’d pried apart with her opposable thumb, and she blew a tiny puff into the lizard’s lungs. The sun glared against the turquoise water. What did it matter if she saved one lizard? One lizard more or less in the world? But she bestowed the kiss of life, again and again, until the lizard’s wrinkled lids peeled back, its muscles roused its own first breath and she set it on the hot cement, where it rested a moment before darting off.