What do you do for fun? That was the question waiting for me from Heath Hall after dinner that night. Did he think we were chatting buddies now? Maybe if we were, he would slip up and give away who he was. I could keep chats surface level. Only saying things everyone already knew about me.

Swim. I typed even though my shoulders were telling me otherwise at the moment, sitting under a couple of ice packs.

No, I said for fun.

That is fun for me. What about you?

He seemed good at keeping chats surface level too, though. Or avoiding questions altogether. Swimming is fun for you? It seems like work.

I don’t get paid for it.

Is that the only way you measure work?

Is there another way? I asked.

Putting more into something than you get out of it.

So he thought I put more into swimming than I got out of it? Why did everyone assume that? Why was everyone always trying to talk me out of something that made me happy? I typed my response. So by that definition, does that mean fun is getting more out of something than you put into it?

Absolutely.

I don’t know that I agree with that. Sometimes hard work brings a sense of accomplishment that feels amazing.

That just proved my definition of work, not disproved it. So what do you do for fun?

Did this line of questioning give me any hints as to who Heath Hall was? Obviously someone who thought I swam too much. There were probably a lot of people who thought that. It didn’t really narrow it down much. Today I stared at the sky. It took zero effort and I got a lot out of it. That was only half true. It actually took me a lot of effort to stare at that sky. It still felt a little like it was sitting on my chest.

What did you get out of it?

Looking at the sky?

Yes.

I lied: Relaxation.

This was the second time I found myself outside the art room this week after practice. The first time had produced no leads. But this one had. My heart was pounding as I waited to cut him off as he came out. I still couldn’t believe he was in there. I had no idea he liked art. But he couldn’t be Heath Hall. We’d ruled him out. Why would it be him? When we chatted the other day online, Heath had said that the mask was about keeping secrets. Had he kept this huge secret from me for months when we were together? It didn’t seem possible. It wasn’t.

It felt like I’d been waiting forever. Finally, the door squeaked open, and I stepped in the path like I had been on my way in.

“Hadley,” he said in surprise.

“Robert. Hi. What are you doing?”