Page 131 of One Adult, Please

31

SHE STAYS DOWN

JOEL

Today we finish what Grace started with a foam trident and a crayon.

"Formation," I call.

The formation has grown. That's the operational adjustment I'm still calibrating. It was four people, one wrench, one axe, one oar, one sleepy stick. I knew where everyone was at all times because everyone meant three people and three people is a system I can monitor without strain.

Diane is on my left, rifle shouldered, safety discipline clean. She handles the weapon the way I handle tools. Diane was a park ranger before the outbreak. She understands perimeters and clearing. She doesn't need me to explain the logic.

Carl runs second squad. His term, not mine. Carl was military, which explains the posture, the organizational impulse, and the way he assesses a room in four seconds: corners first, exits second, threats third, resources fourth.

Carl and I don't agree on everything. We agree on enough. That doors should be locked, buildings should be secured, and the people inside should be accounted for.

Danny and Marcus are on the flank. They move like twins who've never needed words. Shotguns look natural in their hands.

Beck's on point. He has a rifle now. Same energy but louder.

Grace stays center, friendship paddle in one hand, walkie-talkie in the other, crayon plan consulted every thirty seconds. Grant hovers behind her, a patient shadow. Captain circles overhead, reporting in bird.

"Nothing clustered," Grant reports.

"Wave pool first," I say. "Then the slides. Then the pump room."

We move into Celestial Bay through the main entrance arch, which has a sign that says MAKE A SPLASH! in cartoon letters and an animatronic dolphin above the gate that used to spit water at guests and now hangs from one bolt, its mechanism frozen mid-spit, a cheerful cetacean suspended in permanent dysfunction.

Grace looks up at it as we pass. "That dolphin has been through some things," she says.

"The mounting bracket corroded. I flagged it in February. Work order was pending."

"Joel. Look at its face. That dolphin has seen horrors."

"It's injection-molded polyethylene. It can't see things."

"The dolphin disagrees."

I don't argue. Arguing with Grace about the emotional states of inanimate objects is a documented resource sink.

The wave pool is drained. Cracked blue concrete, debris scattered across the bottom: lounge chair cushions, towels, a single flip-flop. Four wrong people are here. Scattered across the empty pool floor, moving in the aimless pattern.

Beck fires. Diane fires. Two of the four go down at distance. This kind of engagement would have been impossible a week ago when all we had was an axe and a wrench and an oar that Grace uses like a baseball bat.

Danny takes the third. Marcus takes the fourth.

The wave pool is clear in under ninety seconds.

The slides go just as smoothly. Carl's team fishes one out of a tube like it's the world's worst plumbing call.

The pump room is underground. Concrete stairs, metal railing, the smell of chlorine and mechanical grease. My feet know the count. Fourteen steps. Railing on the right. Landing at the bottom. Door on the left.

Inside: the pumps. The filtration units, the chemical treatment system, the electrical panel I wired myself when the original contractor made errors in the junction box. The maintenance log is on its clipboard on its hook. Right where I left it. All systems nominal.

No wrong people.

I take the clipboard off the hook. I look at my handwriting. Neat block letters, the same letters I use on Grace's signs.