The summer the river dried up
Dad walked us down to the riverbed every evening that week. The stones were warm. He'd point at the place where, when he was small, the water had been over his head.
Sara's right. The summer of '90. Your father broke down outside Beeston and I drove out with the tools. You were furious about your shoes.
That was 1990, not '89 — and my dad was there too. I remember because his car overheated on the way back and we walked the last mile.