I catch her under her arms and throw her across the water. She resurfaces and swims back.

“Again!”

I do, but I’m so tired. Her legs aren’t even clearing the surface when I throw her. She splashes down, pops back up, laughs, and comes back.

“Again!” she cries as she leaps at me.

I can’t anymore. It’s not that I don’t want to, I just can’t—but I don’t want to disappoint her. I try to throw her, but it’s more like a shove. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to care. She loves it.

“Okay. That’s enough,” I say, breathlessly.

“No! Again!” she cries.

I oblige. I try to make it the grand finale and launch her as hard as I can.

It’s better than my previous attempt, but that’s it. I’m done. I can’t do this anymore. I need to sit down.

She resurfaces, more thrilled than ever.

She hastily bobs her way back to me, laughing.

“Again!” she cries, and leaps at me.

I hate her. I hate my daughter.

Enraged, I dodge to the side. As she falls past me, I put my hand on the back of her head and hold her underwater.

She knows. She knows and she’s going to tell, and it will ruin everything!

Suddenly, it’s night. The Nightingale House looks different, somehow. The yard is different. Mildred’s house is gone. I can feel my daughter grab at my wrist as she struggles.

“Let him go.”

Nicole.

She’s standing right next to me, not the broken Nicole from my nightmare—no, it’s the Nicole I knew. But her eyes are filled with rage.

“Let. Him. Go,” she says.

I blink.

It’s daytime.

I’m in the lake. My hand is still on the back of Caitlyn’s head, holding her underwater as she struggles.

I quickly pull it away.

Caitlyn bursts out of the water, hacking and coughing.

“Caitlyn! Oh my God! I’m so sorry!”

She shakes her head, coughs again, and smiles. She leaps up at me and playfully screams. She hangs on my shoulders and tries to push me underwater. She thinks it’s a game.

I can’t. I can’t do this. What just happened? What did I just do?

“Sweetheart, stop. Please, stop. Stop!”

Caitlyn falls off my shoulders and back into the water.

I start walking back towards the shore.

“Dad, where are you going?” she asks, disappointed.

“Dad’s tired,” I say. “I’m going to sit down for a minute. You keep playing.”

My legs are going to give out. I go to the porch, grab a towel and a chair, and bring them down onto the lawn to be closer to keep an eye on Caitlyn.

What was that? Am I really so tired that I would be angry at Caitlyn for wanting to play with me?