It’s too late; that path is closed to him now. He’ll have to make do with this limited, fumbling perspective: hope that someone who sees further is guiding his steps. He sets his shoulders and follows his daughter inside.

Meant to Be

Thora is weightless.

She floats underwater, ears humming with pressure, the sea-green tips of her hair drifting over her eyes. Ahead of her stretches the hazy gray-blue expanse of the lake: an infinite world for her to explore. Echoes come through the water: the throbbing of a motorboat, the shouts of children playing close to the shore. Thora can hold her breath for a long time. She sculls with her hands, turning, and dives, aiming for the line of buoys that marks the edge of the swimming area. A few seconds and she will be close enough to swim under, make her escape to the wild freedom of the open water.

Something grabs her heel. She kicks, spasming to free herself, but the grip follows her, clamping around her ankle. A tug-of-war, a miniature battle she loses. Before she can get free, she is being pulled upside down to the surface. Water goes up her nose and she chokes, drowning.

She breaks through into the air. “You’re such a dick,” she gasps at her brother, who is treading water and laughing.

Santi grins, the sun off the water making him squint. “You were going to swim under the barrier,” he says, flicking water at her. “Think I didn’t see you?”

Thora splashes him back. “So what?”

“What’s wrong with the water on this side?”

She wrinkles her nose. “Apart from like a thousand people having peed in it?”

Santi tilts his head with an exaggeratedly relaxed expression. “A thousand and one.”

“Ugh! You’re disgusting.” Thora kicks out, swimming away as fast as she can. As he surges into motion behind her, she switches to crawl, easily beating him back to shore. She climbs out, dripping and sinking into the sand. On this summer’s day, the shore of the Fühlinger See is crowded with families escaping the city heat. Thora stamps her way up the beach, toward where the skyline of Cologne shows through the trees. She finds their towels, her copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy lying facedown. She picks it up as Santi drops onto the towel next to her and lies back, closing his eyes. Thora tries to read, but the beach is everything underwater wasn’t: loud, and safe, and full of familiar human noise. She looks over the book at her brother, as still as a corpse and about as entertaining.

“I think I’m going to get a tattoo,” she says.

“Mm,” he grunts.