I hear the exhale of a respirator next to my right ear. It’s a scuba diver—a man in a scuba suit is trying to drown me.

I try to kick and hit him, but he’s got me pinned with both his arms constricting me like an anaconda. The water slows the force of any blow I aim at him.

Black sparks burst in front of my eyes. I’m running out of air. My lungs scream at me to take in a breath, but I know if I do, only chlorinated water will pour into my throat.

I reach behind me and grab what I hope is his respirator. I yank it as hard as I can, pulling it out of his mouth. A stream of silvery bubbles pours up next to me. I hoped that would force him to let go, but he doesn’t even try to replace it. He knows he’s got more air in his lungs than I do. He can hold out while I drown.

I feel my chest heaving, as my body tries to take a breath with or without my consent.

In one last, desperate motion, I yank the hairpin out of my bun. I twist around and stab it into the man’s neck, right where the neck meets the shoulder.

I see his dark, furious eyes through his scuba mask.

And I feel his grip relax around me, just for a split-second, as he flinches with shock and pain.

I pull my knees up to my chest and kick at his body, as hard as I can. I shove myself away from him, rocketing upward to the surface.

My face breaks the surface and I take a huge, desperate gasp of air. I’ve never tasted anything more delicious. It’s almost painful how much air I drag into my lungs.

I swim for the edge of the pool, stroking with all my might, praying that I won’t feel his hand closing around my ankle as he drags me back down again.

I grab the rim of the pool and shove myself out. Not stopping to grab my phone, not even sparing a glance behind me, I sprint across the slippery tiles to the exit.

There’s two ways down from the roof—the elevator or the stairs. I take the latter, not wanting to risk a black-clad hand shoving itself between the elevator doors right as they’re about to close. Instead, I run down two flights of stairs and then I dash back out into the carpeted hallway, hammering on apartment doors until somebody opens up.

I shove my way into the stranger’s apartment, slamming his door behind me and locking it.

“Hey, what the hell?!” he cries.

He’s a man of about sixty, overweight and bespectacled, still wearing office clothes, but with a fluffy pair of slippers on his feet instead of shoes.

He goggles at my swimsuit and the water I’m dripping on his carpet, too confused to form words.

When I look over at the living room couch, I see a woman of about the same age midway through eating a bowl of ice cream, with her spoon paused at the entrance of her mouth. On the television screen, a blonde girl sobs over her chances of getting a rose or being sent home that night.