“There are no sharks,” I reiterate.
“What about the drain? I’ve read about suction-related incidents involving pool drains and?—”
“Ryan. The drain is covered. This isn’tThe Final Destination. The most dangerous thing in this pool right now is that kid over there who just sneezed into the water.”
Ryan’s eyes dart to the kid in question—a freckled boy of maybe six who is, indeed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand before plunging it back into the pool. Ryan’s expression cycles through disgust, horror, and resignation in rapid succession.
“This pool is a biohazard,” he mutters.
“Welcome to public swimming. Step one of learning: accepting that the water is thirty percent pee.”
“That is not comforting.”
“It wasn’t meant to be. It was meant to distract you, andlook”—I nod toward his body—“you’re waist-deep and still breathing.”
He follows my gaze. The water laps at his navel. Genuine surprise crosses his face.
“Now, we’re going to learn how to float.”
All the color drains from his face. “Float? As in, take my feet off the ground? No. Absolutely not. I’ve barely gotten comfortable standing.”
“Ryan, you can’t swim if you can’t float. It’s like trying to play hockey without knowing how to skate.”
“I don’t play hockey.”
“Exactly. Which is why you’re going to trust the guy who does.” I position myself in front of him, the water warm against my stomach where the sun has been heating the shallow end all morning. A dragonfly skims the surface near us, its wings catching the light before it zips away. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to lean back, and I’m going to hold you up. My hands will be under your back the whole time. You will not sink.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do know that. Humans are naturally buoyant. It’s physics.”
“Physics also says I could drown.”
Ryan pushes his glasses up—they’ve fogged from the humidity, giving him the appearance of a tiny, anxious mad scientist. “What if my glasses fall off?”
“I’ll catch them.”
“What if water gets in my nose?”
“You breathe through your mouth.”
“What if I panic?”
“I’ll be right here.” I hold his gaze, steady and sure. “I’ve got you. Okay?”
He stares at me for a long moment. Somewhere behind us, the PA system switches to “Summer of ’69” by Bryan Adams, and a group of teenagers starts singing along, off-key and delighted.
“Okay,” Ryan says. “But if I die, I’m taking you withme.”
“Deal.”
I move behind him and place my hands flat against his upper back. His skin is cool from the water but feverishly warm underneath, and I can feel his heart hammering through his shoulder blades.
“Lean back,” I say. “Slowly.”
He leans back approximately one degree.
“More than that.”
