Forcing her thoughts to slow down, she did what she always did when something was lost: she looked where she least expected to find it. Starting as far away as she could, improbably far from where she’d lost her grip, she felt along the back of the wardrobe, reaching over her head and backward under the water. Her hand was so numb she wasn’t sure she’d feel the tool even if she came across it.

Feeling along the bottom, she proceeded in slow sweeps. Then in the most unlikely place, about two inches from the top of her right shoulder, her fingers knocked against something that slid away.

“Gotcha,” she whispered.

She stretched more carefully now, and her hand came down right on top of it. Using a fingernail, she pried it off the back of the wardrobe and took a moment to hold it in her palm as tightly as she could.

Clutching the tool, she felt for the top right hex hole. Because her fingers were so numb, it took several tries before she found it. She fed the tool inside and started to turn. For a moment she thought she wouldn’t have the leverage to crank the wrench—but then she stretched her arm, mashing her biceps against her nose, and with a sharp crack the bolt began to move.

Amy could rotate it only in a tight semicircle before she had to pull the tool out, turn it back, reseat it, and start again. Every time she went through this ritual, she banged her nose and cheekbones, but she scarcely noticed the pain. Eventually the hex screw came loose and Amy was able to pull it out with her fingers. The right side of her head was now totally underwater, and she heard a satisfying tak as the screw touched down on the bottom of the wardrobe. She reached across, found the opposite screw hole, and began the long laborious process of loosening it.

With every crank, her elbow banged the lid of the coffin. But the pain kept her going and soon she found her rhythm: screw, bang, screw, bang, screw, bang, screw, bang. It was taking longer than the first one. Was she doing something wrong? Had she stripped the threads and was now uselessly turning it in the wood? Then suddenly it was out.

Bracing the soles of her shoes against the bottom of the wardrobe, Amy placed her left hand against the top and pushed. For a moment it didn’t move, but then the water-softened fiberboard yielded with a crack, the screws on the other side let go of the saturated wood, and the entire top hinged open like a trap door and swirled away. As water flooded into the wardrobe, Amy gripped the sharp lip with both hands and slithered out like a molting snake. She stumbled to her feet. All around her in the darkness she heard the sound of rushing water.

“Basil!” she shouted.