“Oh, come on, yes you are.” She waved me off like she had about so many things, so many times before. Already she was taking off the clothes she’d worn on top of her bathing suit and folding them on the dock. “You swam a mile to qualify as a CIT this summer. We’ll take a break in between. You can definitely get there and back, no problem.”

I felt the tug of my own bathing suit beneath my clothes, which I’d put on that morning at my mom’s suggestion without a second thought. “Just in case,” she had said, as if one could never be sure when a swimming-related emergency might crop up.

“No,” I said, crossing my arms. “I don’t want to.”

“Wylie, come on, you know that—”

“No!” I shouted, my heart beating hard. “I don’t actually have to do everything just to prove that I can. Other people get to choose the things they do. Why can’t I?”

Her lips parted then, like she was about to reply. But she took a breath. And her head tilted in that way it did when she was considering something intently. Finally, she nodded. “Okay,” she said quietly.

And that was what I wanted, right? For her to back down. So why did it feel so terrible now that she had?

“Okay?”

“You’re right,” she said. “There are lots of different ways to be brave. Including knowing who you are. I just want to be sure that it’s always you choosing what you want. And not your fear choosing for you.” She took a breath. “Okay?”

I felt a wave of unease. I didn’t want to swim in that water. I resented her trying to make me. But me not swimming wasn’t some casual, I-don’t-feel-like-it decision. It wasn’t really a choice at all.

“Are you disappointed?” I asked.

She walked forward and hugged me. “I couldn’t be more proud, Wylie. Always.”

I stood there on that dock as she dove into that icy water and watched as she kicked away from shore. And I believed she felt proud of me. The problem was I didn’t feel proud of myself.

She’d gone only about a dozen strokes when I stripped off my clothes, took a deep breath, and dove in after her.

THINKING OF THE cold water of Crater Lake works to cool me off, but only until the memory is gone. Within moments I am baking again. When I think I can’t stand the heat one more minute, I finally hear raised voices below.

I jump to my feet and head again to the edge of the roof. Sure enough, when I peer down the firefighters are climbing back into their trucks, tired but triumphant.