So in pieces, then: a long time ago, we met.
LEAH
Panic is a misuse of oxygen. The first thing anyone learns in diving is how to breathe. When the console lights went off, I held my breath for a full sixty seconds, considered the wet wing-shapes of my lungs. There is a practice in Norse mythology that involves the severing of the ribs from the spinal column and the lungs being drawn from the back, extracted in such a manner that the victim is supposedly still able to breathe. Variously described as a method of torture and a means of human sacrifice, there is some debate as to whether this was ever actually performed outside of literature. It would be impossible, of course, to do so with the victim still alive—the lungs wouldn’t function outside of the body, and even if they did, the victim would most likely go into shock and stop breathing on their own. Even so, one can think of the lungs sometimes and believe it. Picture their wide, whaling chambers, the bald imperative of all they are made to contain. I don’t know why I’m mentioning this, really, except that this is what I thought about in the sixty seconds between the system dying and the next breath I was able to take. I thought about my lungs being wrenched through my back and still swelling, contracting, thought of water spilling into the space where my rib cage had been and my lungs going on regardless.
At this point, I should note, we were still following protocol, at least to some degree. It is actually very rare for a submarine to sink, but there are guidelines in place for this eventuality as there are for all things, the most vital of which is to send a distress call without delay. The earlier you can do this （and the closer to the surface you are when you do）， the more likely it is that a coastguard or passing vessel will pick up the signal and realize that something is wrong. The problem, of course, is that sending a distress call relies on your system being online, which ours was not. I remember Matteo at the comms panel, moving his hands over the console for a moment and then looking at me. I remember, too, the disquieting lack of electric light—the switches dull—the way our craft seemed suddenly less a piece of precision-tooled engineering and more a swiftly sinking box. Matteo was the one who checked the engines, the junction boxes, the pressure gauges. “There’s nothing wrong,” he said. “It should all be working fine.”
We were still descending when the system went out and already too deep to evacuate. Our CO2 scrubbers, for whatever reason, appeared to have remained intact, but with no way to control the ballast tanks, there was nothing we could do but continue to drop.
MIRI
I hold the phone to my collarbone and yell for Leah. I don’t typically like to raise my voice, but the sound of running water has taken on the ubiquity of traffic in our flat and I have to shout sometimes just to make myself heard. The woman on the line has asked to speak to the authorized personnel directly, as she cannot deal with me on Leah’s behalf.
“But I have all the numbers,” I say, “you know the reason I’m calling—why can’t you just deal with me?”
It has taken six separate attempts on six different days to get through to a real person, and the elation of this has unfortunately led me to overestimate the extent to which a real person is actually going to be able to help.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” the real person says now. “I can only speak about company matters with the authorized personnel.”
I open my mouth, close it, try again.
“But she’s my wife. I have all her details. What if I just pretended to be her. Would that be OK?” The real person makes an awkward little noise.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” The sound of running water continues. I consider shouting for Leah again and don’t.
“I could put the phone down and call you back and do a different voice, if you liked? I’ll say it’s Leah from the start, that way you won’t get into trouble. You just tell anyone who asks that I’m her and it’s fine, I swear.”
There is a curious noise on the line—I can’t tell if the real person is sighing or crying or eating a sandwich.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Miri.”
* * *
A thin needling rain, like someone is throwing pins from the rooftops. On the sofa, Leah pours cherry Coke into a plastic glass patterned with hamburgers and then does not drink it, glides her fingers down the skin of her left arm. She is silvered over, oystered at her elbow creases and around the neck. This is something I noticed when she first came back and wasn’t sure how to bring up, though she pointed it out herself before too long: Look at this, and this, they told us to expect some stuff like that.