I kick, I pump, I paddle.

I thrash. I thrust. I flail.

But we’re sinking now.

And I can’t tell what I feel more: excruciating pain, or paralyzing dread.

I fight to keep Q’s head above water, even letting my own head submerge.

I cough and I tread until Q shifts, even heavier now, and his weight grapples me under the waves. Eyes wide, I lunge for the surface, but every second pushes it farther away.

I can’t breathe.

I try to push Q’s stomach upward, hoping to throw him into the current. But he barely budges, just falls down harder on me.

And I know this is the end, we’re sinking faster than I can paddle.

The moon shrinks to nothing.

And this is how it feels to exhale your last breath.

90

Eyes open or closed when I die?

Which would be better, when they find me?

If they find me.

Would they say, this guy fought to the end?

Does closing my eyes mean I give up?

Would it mean anything to Whit?

To Autumn?

Are her keys still in my pocket?

It’s her only set—I know because she’d recently locked them in the car.

Her locksmith cousin to the rescue, made her promise she’d make a spare, and I’d reminded her, but . . .

Isn’t that life?

You think there’s always tomorrow?

But then a column of lights injects into the water; there’s something rushing toward us. And my waist is lassoed, Q’s, too, and like a collapsing dream, we’re ripped from the deep.

89

I don’t realize it’s me screaming.

That when they say please, stop fighting us.

It’s me they’re talking to.

And I’m guessing PTSD isn’t a thing that happens literal seconds post-trauma, but.

I mean, who knows, maybe it’s all the water I inhaled—

I’m afraid to open my eyes because this doesn’t feel right.

I don’t feel right.

As if my head and body have parted ways.

And what if this is how you feel when you’re newly dead?

Someone’s repeating my name—“Jamal. Jamal.”—their voice drippy and hollow, like there’s a fishbowl over their head.

A hand touches my cheek like it knows me, and the voice is saying open your eyes, Jamal. Please, open your eyes.

And when I finally do, Autumn’s leaning over me, a terror in her face I hope she never feels again.

I try to smile but instead I throw up on the sand. Several minutes and I can’t stop throwing up, my body exorcising Lake Erie in violent heaves that feel like a giant’s kicking my kidneys.

Were this a cartoon, you’d pounce on my stomach and a fountain would spout from my lips, a distressed fish swimming atop.