He stroked into a bed of water lilies and became disoriented among the pulpy tubers, chopping at them lamely. His right foot touched bottom, and that instant the image of Matthew came into his mind, a bright face ringed with the dark silk of her hair. Paul was dying, caught between pushing off for the middle of the canal again and leaning into the shallows his body yearned for. He began thrashing both ways at once, afraid he was going to cry. His left hand reached out and grasped the hairy root system of hyacinth, and he listened to his breath explode from him in hoarse spasms, his foot still caught in the tempting mud of the levee side of the canal, hyacinth all around, on his head, scraping the back of his neck. The root system in his hand seemed to have unusual texture, and he pulled that way, opening and closing his fingers on something finer than plant root, as fine as hair. He dropped under and found her, as still and limp as if she had been growing there for years, waiting for him to come. He grappled for her tough denim shirt, his fingers numb in the cloth.