Since the gloves were impeding my efforts, I removed the right one and grabbed the alternate regulator with my bare hand. Success! Gabe shook his head wildly. Abruptly I was towed through the water. I gaped at the lake’s surface. The Five had disappeared from view, evidently having decided to pull me out.
I glanced at my watch, distressed, and reached my naked hand toward the underside of the ice. More time, I wanted to yell. A hulking form leaned over me; I hoped it was the camera. I envisioned the photo: my five fingers spread wide, palm shoved against the ice like glass, burn scars visible, a million tiny bubbles of breath surrounding the hand, proof of life, of something trapped beneath the surface.
Perhaps we could put the image on T-shirts, I thought dizzily as my hand wilted.
The safety rope yanked me toward the hole in the ice. I had trained far too hard and long to surrender this easily. I could correct the issue if they’d give me the chance.
What’s the only way you’re going to succeed?
Through my willingness to endure.
I let go of the backup regulator and fumbled with the harness instead. I was breaking every rule in the scuba handbook, but I also wasn’t an average diver. No matter how Gabe scoffed, I was absolutely certain that I had become immune to pain. As long as I remained levelheaded, danger would not find me. I unhooked from the safety rope and thrust my body downward. Gabe made a noise and reached for me, but I kicked my arms and legs to escape him. Once I was firmly out of reach, I relocated the backup mouthpiece, movements labored and awkward.
Gabe floated above me for a few seconds, then unclipped his own harness. I frowned. This was not part of the plan. Gabe hadn’t spent hundreds of hours acclimating for cold-water dives; he couldn’t hold his breath underwater for six minutes in case of an emergency; he didn’t have gear tailor-made for his body. He was supposed to return to the surface and leave me to my performance. He would pay for this. I’d send an army of seahorses after him. I giggled at the thought, bubbles erupting from my mouth as I swam farther down.
Above Gabe a few arms stretched through the hole into the lake. What were they thinking, sticking sockless arms into freezing water? Gabe swatted at them. I propelled myself a few feet lower so no one could reach me. After every gasp for breath, every invasion of water and ice, I cleared my regulator. I glanced at my watch again. What time did I want it to be? Why was my throat frosty?
The creatures above blurred, flailed, descended farther into the water. Head, shoulders, limbs, trunk. I thought fish demons resided at the bottom of the sea.
Perhaps this was the bottom, I mused. Perhaps I was topsy-turvy. I peered down, then up, then down, then up. Conclusion inconclusive, I ruled.
The brute, pale and bloated, lurched toward me in the murky depths or tops. I tried to swim away—I did—but my limbs were made of broken china. My eyes went black, black as a silk sleeping mask, black as a father’s promise.
No sleep for you tonight, sweets.
Final snapshot: another fiend reaching through the hole, eerily reminiscent of an auger, the fiend not the hole, thin on bottom, broad up top. What was the drill’s name? How long ago that seemed, another dimension altogether. Had I ever been dry?
I came to, choking, colder than I had dreamt possible. Serious-looking people scuttled and strapped and poked and prodded. In and out I went. Au revoir! Sirens, sirens, sirens, the soundtrack to my journey. How many times had Gabe raced behind them, chasing me to the emergency room like we were two children playing tag?
This time we shared the hospital wagon. That’s what they told me later; I don’t remember any of it. Not the blue face or the hot saline drip or the hearse that pulled around back.
One week later I was discharged and sent home. Meanwhile, my best friend in the world, the one who froze to death, was burned to ash.
30
Natalie
JANUARY 9, 2020
THE NEXT MORNING I step outside to a sheet of gray hovering low in the sky. The wind whoops, threatening to steal my hat. But there is no downpour, no strike of lightning or boom of thunder. The clouds look like they might open any minute into the storm Kit prophesied last night. For now, the island holds steady.
I get to the cafeteria right as it opens. After grabbing bland cereal and a tub of yogurt, I choose a seat with views of both doors to watch for Kit. Today’s the day. I’m going to take her aside first chance I get.
I feel like I might be sick.
I force myself to eat anyway, itching to take out my phone （nestled safely in my sports bra） while I do. It’s been almost twenty-four hours since I checked in with my team, and I’m dying to know how yesterday afternoon’s briefing went. When was the last time I went this long without opening my inbox? College? My breath hitches at the thought of triple-digit notifications, a screen chicken-poxed with red circles. What if someone needs me? I squeeze the bridge of my nose.