There's no room for anything except getting to him.
I swim as fast as I can. The water moves under me and around me. I know this water. I've been swimming in it since I could walk. I know the temperature, the salt content, the way the swells move and the way the currents feel against my body.
This is my water.
This is my home.
And somewhere out ahead of me, in the deep blue, this water is trying its best to kill my boy.
I start praying. I'm not sure I believe in God. I've gone back and forth on it my whole life, leaning toward yes when things are good and toward probably not when they aren't.
But right now, with the salt in my mouth and the current under me and a kid I cannot lose somewhere ahead of me in the water, I pray. I pray the way my mama taught me, simple and direct. Talking straight.
Please. Please let me get to him. Please don't take him. Not this one. He's special. Not him. Give me one more sunset with him. Just one if that's all you got. Just one more sunset and then you can take me instead.
I see him. Closer now. His head is above water but barely, his chin tipped up, his arms moving in weak, uncoordinated strokes that aren't doing anything except keeping him at the surface. The hot pink bathing suit is bright in the clear water, and I've never been so grateful for an obnoxious color in my life.
"Stormy!" I yell. I'm fifty yards out. Then thirty. Then twenty. "Stormy! Look at me! Look!"
He hears me and his head turns. His eyes find me. And even from twenty yards away, even over the swells, I can see them change. Those blue-green eyes, the color of this water, they go from empty to alive in a flash.
The light comes back into them like someone flipped a switch. His face crumbles and I can see him trying to yell, but he can't because he's swallowing water and coughing. He's barely holding on.
I keep swimming toward those eyes. The first thing I saw when he lifted that visor in the rain. The thing that's been pulling me toward him since the first second, stronger than any rip current, more dangerous than any storm.
I close the distance. Ten yards. Five. I can see him clearly now. His lips are blue-tinged. His skin is gray. His eyes are locked on me with an intensity that looks like faith, like I'm the only thing in the world he believes in, and I will be worthy of that if it's the last thing I do.
"Listen to me," I say. I'm treading water five feet from him, close enough to reach but not grabbing him. Not yet. I can't spook him. I can't have him panic and grab me wrong and take us both under.
I've seen that happen. Strong swimmers drown because the person they're saving drags them down in a blind panic.
But I also know this kid. I know what touch means to him and what it costs. I am not going to grab him without permission even now, even with his head barely above water and his arms giving out.
"Stormy. I need you to listen. When I come closer, I want you to wrap your arms around my neck. Like a baby koala on a big, strong tree. Arms around my neck, legs around my waist. Hold on tight. Can you do that?"
He nods in a tiny, exhausted movement.
I move closer. "Okay. Come here, darling."
He grabs me. It's not tentative. It's the grip of a person who is drowning and has found the only solid thing in the world. His arms lock around my neck, tighter than I thought he had strength for, and his legs wrap around my waist. His face presses into my shoulder and his body clamps onto mine like he's trying to fuse us together.
"You came," he sobs against my neck. "You came to save me."
I keep slowly treading water with my arms and legs, not touching him with my hands.
"Of course I came. Did you really think I would let my little Stormy drown?"
A sound comes out of him. Not a word. A gurgle between a sob and a gasp muffled against my shoulder. His arms and legs tighten. I can feel his heart beating against my chest, so fast, like a hummingbird trapped under his ribs.
"I've got you," I say. "You're okay. Don't be scared. We'll be fine."
He's not okay. His heart is hammering wildly. His breathing is ragged and rapid and he's shaking so hard I can feel it in my teeth. He's in a full adrenaline crash and if I try to swim back right now with him like this, we're both going to be in trouble.
He's gripping me so tight he's restricting my breathing. His legs are locked around my waist, and every muscle in his body is firing at maximum because his brain is telling him he's still drowning.
"Listen, Stormy. This is what we're going to do. We're going to float around out here for a little bit. Just you and me. We're not going anywhere yet. I'm going to tread water and hold you, so you can rest. You need to catch your breath. We're going to stay right here until you can breathe better. Okay?"
He doesn't answer. His face stays pressed against my neck and his grip doesn't loosen. But his breathing hitches and I feel him trying. Trying to slow down. Trying to find a rhythm.
