We’re getting suited up in the purple light. It’s so dark I can just make out the water’s edge where an old rusted yield sign rises from the waves like a shark’s fin. Along the horizon, the clouds are streaked with a thin band of sky that promises sun. I squish into the cold rubber of my wetsuit in the darkness. Dad leans against the truck, the gray smoke of his pre-dive cigarette blue in the twilight as he looks out at the sea. There’s a photo from before I was born, when he and Mom were still together: Dad’s on the porch of our house, one hand resting on the deck railing while his other holds a cigarette like he’s about to take a drag. He’s looking at something off camera, and whatever he’s looking at is making him happy. He has that same relaxed look now, staring out at the water, the waves against the concrete making a soft puckering sound.

“All right, let’s dive,” he says, tossing his cigarette into the water, where it goes out with a hiss. I heft on my tank and Dad puts on his. We check our gauges, squeeze into our flippers, lower our goggles, and go waddling backward toward the end of the street where the concrete slopes under the water, until I feel the ocean around me and I kick off, leaving the safety of land behind.

Everything is quiet, just the swoosh of the air tank and the sun breaking through the clouds for one brief second, lighting up the sea in golden streaks. A school of minnows swims past, silver as they turn in the light, and the rays reach below to the ranch houses of our old neighborhood, their vinyl siding swaying in the current like loose Band-Aids. We dive past the apartment complex where Mom lived after she left us, and on toward the elementary school where a couple of bluefish swim from the school’s open doors. Dad paddles through the entrance, his diving light flickering across the lockers, and I can’t figure out why we’re here. We already salvaged all the usable supplies: pencils and pens which didn’t work well, and a bunch of notebooks we laid out in the living room until the pages dried all crinkled and sea-stained. Dad cracks one of the rusted locks with the butt of his flashlight and opens the locker to reveal the bloated sleeve of a puffy jacket, too small to fit me. All the same, he stuffs it into the net, along with a textbook, which is already falling apart. I want to ask him what I need an elementary math book for, but before I can tap his shoulder he’s kicking off down the dark, sandy hallway and out through the back exit.