Condemned

39 | Sam

How cold is the river water? How long can one really survive, immersed as we are? Does Jael have more time than I do, even if I'm working twice as hard?

I don't have the answers to these questions. I just know that my limbs are going numb. Strong swimmer or not, it won't matter much longer, who's the better swimmer. Naked or soaking wet, finding shelter won't be any less deadly. We need to save some time and strength for that, too.

At the first sign of settlement, I give my stroke a final push. It's not a long strip of housing. When half of it goes by and we're still caught in the flow, I let go of Jael's chest and grab for his hand. And I miss, god damnit. The current is overpowering. My hands are pretty much useless. And the backpack is adding a lot of drag.

I'm forced to turn back and swim for him in the wrong direction. He's trying to meet me halfway, but he takes a few treacherous dunks below. It's a very real fear that he won't resurface. Then comes a fear that's worse—we'll both lose all mobility and drown or die of hypothermia.

One worry at a time. He goes under and I plunge, too. Underneath the surface, I finally reacquire him, my arms hooked around his shoulders.

We surface for a breath. He's coughing up water, and at least he succeeds.

"Grab on to one ankle and kick like hell," I tell him once I hear his lungs heaving in a rhythm again.

I slowly release him and flip over. We slide apart. His hands drag down one leg, and he manages to take hold.

As soon as he's secure, I ratchet up my efforts, face in the water, and get going, full crawl stroke—two arms and one leg—and decent kicks from Jael. I take as few breaths as possible, and at long last, we get to a place where we're just a few feet from shore. There's a steep drop off, but eventually, there's muck beneath my feet and I get a grip on some long grass just outside of the water.

Jael uses his hands to climb up my body. He struggles to find traction with me in his way and fumbles for a good handle on anything stable other than me. When he lets go of my hips, he loses his balance and floats further downstream.

Then, a few yards off, he catches a tree root. He plants his legs on ground that must be solid, because, with a jump and his impressive upper-arm strength, he pops out of the water, lifting his hips to the grassy ledge, a few feet above the water. From there, it's an easy climb out for him. I try to do the same. And fail. I'm too short. Too tired. Too cold.

Few as they are, the seconds that tick by, those he uses to walk over and offer me his hand, are long and loaded. He lifts me to a point I can get my knees up. All the while, I'm pinching my eyes shut. There's an orange sliver on the horizon. I wouldn't call it dark anymore. His clothing is long gone. Everything in my backpack is probably soaking wet. The secrets between us are diminishing the longer we travel together, but there are still a noteworthy few, and I can't face them right now in any context.

It's a strange sensation—being so anxious that I can't see straight, and at the same time, numb, from head to toe, to fingertips.  

Our awkward positioning is fortunately brief. Jay continues to help me to my feet. They may be beneath me, but I still stumble into him, his hands cradling my elbows for support, and I get a face full of chest, nonetheless.

"It's the hypothermia setting in." he tells me, holding me close for a few seconds.

He feels so much warmer than I do, and I don't want him to let go. We certainly can't stay here, though. We're too exposed and have never needed shelter more desperately. 

"I guess," I reply, slurring. Even my tongue seems fuzzy and thick.

He takes the backpack from me, props me against a tree. With an urgency that seems unproductive, he locates my windbreaker. After shaking off the excess water and wringing it out with a ferocity that comes across as comically supernatural, he helps me get it on.