“Drowning. Dying. Getting eaten by sharks.”

I smiled, though the last thing I wanted was Clara to think I was laughing at her.

“What?” she said.

“Nothing.” How could I tell her, without offending her—that it was nice to see her talk and act like a kid. Clara inched her way toward me, grimacing. Then I understood. A wave splashed her hands, and it must have stung the burns.

“You need to go see someone about those.”

“I’m fine. It’s just cold.” She pinched her nose and slipped under the surface. I plunged below, too. It was a relief, to shut out the rest of the world, to silence it, to rinse everything I had done from my hair, my eyelashes, every inch of my skin.

We surfaced around the same time. Clara pushed the wet hair from her face. Underneath it she was smiling.

“Nice, right?”

“Not terrible.” The water was like ink. Each time I brought my hands above the surface, a part of me expected them to be stained. I thought of Winslow Homer’s paintings, his seascapes tense with awe and threat. I remembered one of his paintings that I had seen at the Clark. Undertow. Based on a rescue Homer witnessed in Atlantic City, the picture showed a man hauling drowning women from the water, the men looking mighty and muscular and the women looking helpless, spent, pale. A beautiful picture, but a story I was tired of.

Behind Clara, back on the beach, I thought I saw something. A shadow outlined in neon. I tried to tell myself it was just a trick of the light, but already the moment had taken on a different feeling. The calm of the water became menacing. Our isolation became a vulnerability. I spun in a circle, making sure no one had snuck up behind us.

“What?”

“Nothing. I just thought I saw someone. On the shore.”

“It might just be a homeless person. A lot of them sleep under the pier.” But I knew we were thinking the same thing when I saw Clara standing a little straighter, her shoulders high: the men had followed us. To think we had gotten away had been silly, stupid, or that because we had cleared one danger we were protected from others, like the night’s quota had been filled.

“What should we do?”

“Well, we can’t stay out here forever.” Clara’s teeth had started to chatter. I felt goose bumps rise on my arms.