"Come here," he says. Low. His hand reaches for my hip. "Sit with me."
He means his lap. I know he means his lap because his fingers curl into the waistband of my shorts and tug, and the pull is warm and lazy and exactly the kind of thing Zero does when he wants me close and doesn't feel like asking twice.
I step toward him just as he yanks me closer.
My foot catches the edge of the board—the rough silvered lip where the plank is warped and lifting—and my weight is already shifting forward from his tug and my center of gravity isn't where I think it is.
I don't sit.
I tip.
Zero's hand tightens on my waistband—I feel the fabric go taut, then slip through his fingers—and then I'm past him, falling off the dock, and the water swallows me whole.
There's no wading. No gradual entry. No time to brace. One second I'm laughing above Zero's upturned face and the next I'm under—all the way under—the water closing over my head in one black rush, and the cold hits me like a wall and my feet kick and there's nothing beneath them.
No mud. No bottom. Just depth.
Somethingshifts.
Not in the water. Inme. In the deep animal place where my body stores things my brain won't look at.
The cold. The dark water over my face. The way it happened so fast—one second air, the next second none. The pressure at my temples. The way I can't see anything. The way someone's hand was on me and then it wasn't and I'm under,I'm under—
Linda.
The bathtub. Her hand on the back of my head. The water coming up over my ears, my mouth. The specific sound of water closing over a child's face—the muffled roar, the loss of air, the pressure at the temples. Her voice above the surface saying something I can't make out because I'm under, I'm under, I can't—
My chest locks.
I surface—barely—gasp once, but my arms aren't working right. The panic has them. The panic has everything. My hands are slapping at the water instead of pulling and the dock is right there, I can see the dark shape of it above me, but I can't reach it because my body isn't mine anymore. My body is nine, ten, eleven years old and it has decided we are drowning.
I go under again.
Deeper this time. The water is in my nose, my throat. I can't tell which way is up. I can't—I can't—
Arms.
Arms under mine. Hauling me up. The surface breaking around my face and air—cold, sweet, brutal—hitting my lungs and I'm gasping, choking, coughing up pond water, and there are hands on me. Hands everywhere.
"I've got you—Max—I've got you—"
Atlas. His voice in my ear. His arm a band across my chest, my back against his sternum, his other hand cupping the side of my face. He is fully clothed and fully in the water and he is holding me the way he held me in the kitchen, every time I've tried to fall.
"Breathe, sweetheart. I'm here. Breathe."
I can't. I can't breathe. The panic is everywhere—in my chest, in my fingers, in my teeth. My body is still in the bathtub. My body is still back there.
"Max."
Bane. In the water too, to my left. Not touching me—giving Atlas the hold—but right there. His voice low and steady and close. "You're at the pond. You're home. Feel Atlas behind you. Feel the air. You're above the water. You're breathing."
I'm not breathing. I'm trying. The air won't go in right. It shudders in and shudders out and I'm shaking so hard my teeth are chattering.
"In through your nose." Atlas. Calm. His chest expanding against my back, slow and deliberate. "With me. In. Hold. Out."
I try. I fail. I try again. I’m coughing and sputtering. The rhythm catches—not all the way, not steady, but enough. One breath. Two. Three. My hands find Atlas's arm across my chest and grip. My nails dig into his forearm and he doesn't flinch.
Zero is on the dock.
