“Well,” Tom continues, “when you’re finished eating, get on your swimsuit. If that’s okay with you, Paul?”

“Sure.” I shrug, trying to pretend it means nothing to me one way or the other.

At around a quarter to ten on that bright morning, we find ourselves walking out to the dock in our swimsuits, each of us carrying a towel and shivering. The September air is finally chilly, and I hug my arms to my chest. A breeze kicks up, rushing toward us from out over the lake.

We all bumble our way into the boat, and Tom starts it up. He only runs the motor for a few seconds though, long enough to get us about fifty feet away from the dock, out into the lake.

“Should be nice and deep here,” he says, and before I know what he’s doing, he jumps out of the boat and disappears under the water. When he comes up, he’s smiling. It’s the kind of smile that can’t help surfacing, the kind of smile that I can tell he is trying to keep to himself. It’s the old Tom peeking through.

“Can you throw in the anchor?” he asks me, so I do. “Come to the back of the boat,” he tells you, treading water.

You sit on the steps at the back of the boat. Some of the water laps up over the edge of the lowest step, rolling over your toes.

“It’s so cold!” you protest, hopping backwards, up out of the water.

“Jump in. I’ll catch you.” Tom puts his hands out in front of him. “Come on. Don’t be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” you say, and I have to smile, because those are always words that lead you into action. Afraid? You are the least afraid person I’ve ever met.

You stand at the back of the boat, and the tiny lake waves barely move the boat up and down. You jump, and you’re under.

You come up with a shriek. “It’s freezing!”

Tom laughs, a wholehearted laugh, the first I’ve heard from him since we arrived, and you grin. The sound of it takes me back decades. Even if I couldn’t see, had I heard that laugh, I would have known exactly who it was.

For the next ten minutes or so, Tom proceeds to teach you how to float on your back and how to tread water. At one point, he comes over and pulls himself up onto the back of the boat. The two of us watch you float on your back. Your eyes are closed, your face and fingertips the only things breaking the surface. It’s like you’re dead, or in some faraway place.

“She’s a quick learner,” Tom observes. “Can you hand me my towel?”

“Is she okay out there on her own?”

“She’s fine. She’s got the floating thing down.”

The morning feels so good, so new. It’s inconceivable on this morning how sickness and death and darkness can even exist.

“About last night—”