Submerge

D I S T A N C E

0 hours, 0 minutes, 0 sec

Ellis says progress doesn't feel like progress while you're inside it.

It's like the minute hand on a classroom clock—only when you look away for a whole period do you realize it moved.

This morning I decide to stare at the clock anyway.

The bleachers at the community-center pool are freezing, aluminum teeth biting through my joggers. Jada's late. Nathan paces the deck, stopwatch slapping his palm on every turn like he's coaching ghosts.

Ethan sits beside me, knees bouncing, a paper tray of cinnamon-sugar doughnut holes balanced on his lap.

"Pre-race carbs," he says, nudging the tray closer. "Doctor's orders."

"Pretty sure Serrano meant protein."

"Cinnamon is a spice. Spices are... botanical. Boom—salad."

I take one to shut him up. Sugar hits my tongue and, embarrassingly, my pulse steadies. Month-old memories still taste like metal; powdered pastry feels luxurious.

Across the water a line of kindergarteners in neon floaties squeal their way through water-safety class. Their laughter ricochets around the rafters, harmless as soap bubbles.

I tell myself the sound will never mutate into screams. I almost believe it.

Jada finally barrels through the service door—clipboard, whistle, dark-blue scrubs covered in tiny cartoon sharks. "Sorry!" she calls, breathless. "The parking lot is a war crime."

She claps once; the echo snaps. "Warm-up two lengths sculling, two dolphin kick on your back, then grab a pull buoy." Her gaze locks on me. "After that we try something fun."

Fun. Physical-therapist code for pain dressed in yoga pants. I stand, hitch my carbon-fiber brace, and limp to lane three.

Nathan drops the stopwatch lanyard over my head like a medal. "Hit the button when you shove off. Doesn't matter what it says; matters that you pressed it."

The plastic case is warm from his hand. "You're sappy today."

"Better than snappy."

"I heard that," Ethan says, stripping his T-shirt. He's volunteering as demo dummy for breast-stroke drills later; the sight of his abs should be illegal in public facilities. I flick water at him before sliding in.

0 hours, 12 minutes, 16 sec

Water hugs every slope of me, bracing and soft at once. I float face-up, arms out, the ceiling a grid of buzzing lights. Pull. Glide. Pull. Glide. Each scull strokes dust from muscles, dislodges rust from memories.

When Jada signals, I grip the wall. "Okay, starfish," she says, "ditch the pull buoy. We're graduating."

"Graduating to what?"

She taps her watch. "Two hundred meters. Broken into fifty-meter bites. You did thirty last week; this is a longer chew."

Fifty meters equals twenty-five strokes with zero leg drive. My stomach hollows. Ethan's elbows rest on the gutter; sugar sparkles on the corner of his mouth.

"You've got this," he whispers. "I'm in the next lane, but if you drown, I'll make mouth-to-mouth look heroic."

"That is not BLS protocol," Jada mutters, but her eyes crinkle.

Nathan perches on the block like a hawk. "Ready?"

No.
"Yes."

The stopwatch chirps. I shove off, arms scooping glass. One, two, breathe. Three, four—water hisses around my ears like a distant rainstick. By fifteen strokes my shoulders buzz; by twenty the brace drags, molten lead. I grit my teeth, slap the far tile.