Page 120 of Middle of the Night

I hit the water hard.

A body-rattling slap, followed by a spinning, dizzying drop beneath the surface. As if I’m being dragged to the bottom by an unseen hand.

The water is darker than death. An all-encompassing blackness that leaves me disoriented in seconds. I flail in the murk, unsure which direction to swim, searching for light, for air, for safety. It isn’t until I touch bottom—a surreally gentle sink into silt and mud—that I know which way to go.

Straight up.

I push off and rocket upward, kicking furiously, my chest tightening from exertion and lack of oxygen. I break the surface, mouth wide open, simultaneously gasping for air and screaming Henry’s name. It echoes through the night air, like a stone skipping across the water.

Henry. Henry. Henry.

As the echo fades, I hear something else—a water-choked croak that quickly vanishes with a light splash.

I dive toward the sound, immediately getting lost in the dark water again. I can’t see anything beyond my hands reaching blindly into thedepths. Even then, they’re distorted, murky, the dark water slipping like silk between my fingers.

I remain that way—frantically spinning and groping—for another minute.

Then another more.

When the tightness in my chest returns, so sudden and fierce I think my lungs are about to burst, I resurface.

I gulp down some more air and drop back under.

Tumbling so fast and so far that suddenly I can’t tell which direction is up and which one is down. I swim toward what I think is the surface, surprised when I hit the mucky bottom of the lake. I reverse course, springing to the surface, only to find myself bumping again into the mud and the silt.

All I can think about is Henry doing the same thing. Disoriented and terrified and trapped underwater as his chest tightens as much as mine is doing right now, the pressure so agonizing I fear my lungs might burst.

I know what that sensation means.

I’m running out of air. Which means Henry is, too. If he hasn’t already. The thought of him drifting in the depths, his wrists still lashed together, on the verge of death, sends me blindly kicking and thrashing through the black water.

Suddenly, something clasps my hand.

The touch is feather-light, almost soothing. The grasp immediately calms me, and I find myself being tugged forward. I let myself be led through the water, thinking that it must be Henry. That he’s found me instead of the other way around.

But when I stretch out my free arm, reaching through the murky water in front of me, I feel nothing. There’s literally nothing there.

Yet that gently insistent grip remains. A stranger’s hand holding mine.

A boy’s hand, I realize.

And not a stranger.

Billy.

I know it’s him because his presence is everywhere. It feels exactly like it did when he was alive. Calm and happy and kind.

This isn’t Andy.

Nor is it a hallucination.

It’s Billy Barringer, my old friend, reuniting with me at last.

I let him continue to guide me, not knowing which direction we’re heading but trusting it’s the right one. Maybe he’s here to lead me upward to safety. Maybe he’s here to take me down to the afterlife.

Whatever it is, I accept it.

Billy keeps pulling me. Faster now. Our destination just ahead. Then I break the surface, the night air slapping me into alertness. Paddling in place, I gasp for air while clutching at the invisible hand that led me here.

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