by Heather Bell Adams

Brandon didn’t understand why the others weren’t running too. As he scrambled over the rocks toward the swimming hole, they were yelling, but the sound echoed in the valley, and he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Maybe the party was still going. Brandon ran and kept his eyes on the small head dipping in and out of the water, the spindly, flailing arms. No one else seemed to have noticed, or maybe they assumed Brandon didn’t need any help. They expected him to take care of it, the Gulf War veteran who had plunged into greater danger and had the medals to prove it. Finally, he reached the water’s edge. But the child had floated farther away, some two hundred yards out.

Minutes ago, Brandon had been sitting beside Julie on the makeshift beach, more dirt than sand. The partygoers were there for him even though he’d refused any kind of welcome-home celebration. He had felt their gaze while he nipped at Julie’s earlobe and licked the side of her neck, any excuse to draw closer to his wife. Her skin tasted like the honey-scented lotion he remembered. A relief when so much else had changed.

Being back from deployment meant coffee so hot it scalded his tongue, a mattress so soft it felt like quicksand. A brightness everywhere drenched in green instead of brown and dripping with rain and not blood or oil or fuel.

The water lapped at his feet. Julie yelled after him, and he waved over his shoulder to reassure her. He waded in.

He called out to the child, “I’m coming, hold on. I’ve got you.”

Along the shoreline, someone turned the radio to a Bon Jovi power ballad. The water knocked like ice against his shins. For a second, Brandon let his gaze snag free of the child up ahead. He had to look for his daughter to reassure himself that Kira was safe. Some fifty people had gathered, friends from around Crescent Gap, former teachers from high school, neighbors. His in-laws held court by the coolers, probably keeping note of who took a beer and who stuck to water or soda. Red, white, and blue bunting dangled from the trees, and a table had been set up with a sheet cake, brownies, and chips. In a hooded sweatshirt that overwhelmed her frame, Kira stood a distance off with the other teenagers, laughing. Another girl Brandon didn’t recognize ran her fingers through Kira’s hair. At this age—most of the girls were fifteen, give or take—when they grew bored, they groomed each other like animals. Kira was safe, happy, oblivious.

The water covered Brandon’s knees and then his thighs. He hurried faster, splashing, trying not to panic until the water was deep enough for swimming, and then he dove.

Every few strokes, he glanced up to track the child—messy brown hair, a dirty face, maybe bloody. Revelry along the shoreline. Brandon started to get angry. They were blind, clueless, every last one of them, these friends of his, distant cousins, people from around town. They didn’t notice what was right in front of them.

In church last Sunday, Brandon had sat with his hands wedged under his thighs, his heel tap-tap-tapping the carpet. All those people and only one exit, all the way at the back. In an emergency, there would be no quick way out of the too-tight aisles. The stained-glass windows could shatter.

Jesus knocking on his heart’s door, heart knocking against the back of his skull. Brandon told himself the pew was a shield.

Now the water filled his nose and ears, and the sounds of the party filtered away. In their place, the snarl and buzz of adrenaline.

“What’s the matter with you? What happened over there?” Julie had asked last night at supper. Or had it been every night, each of the twenty-four nights he’d been back, that she’d asked?

At church, he’d managed to control himself. He had not high-crawled his way out like he’d wanted, hoping the congregation would follow as he cleared the path. Instead, he’d sat primly in the pew.

Brandon surfaced and gulped at the air. In the time he’d been swimming, the clouds had parted, and the afternoon sun burned brighter. With the sun in his eyes, he reached up and over and slapped at the water until he made contact. The child’s skin, shockingly rough. The scent of fish. The jerk and whoosh of Brandon’s legs, muscles quivering as he made the turn, rushing back to shore, his arms a cradle.

“Hey!” he yelled. “Somebody go get help—hurry!”

His father-in-law perked up. “What’s that? You alright out there, son? You need something?”

Julie joined her dad, her hand shaded over her eyes. “Brandon, please. Come on. Get out of there.”

The child in his arms seemed hollowed out. Too light. A cloud rolled over the sun again, and Brandon took another deep breath. Without the harsh glare, he could see better.

“Hang in there,” he said to the child he carried, only he discovered it was not a child at all but a log. Its branches he’d mistaken for arms. The gouges in the wood had resembled eyes, a bloody face. Brandon’s ears roared. His eyes watered.

When Brandon dropped the log, it bobbed and floated along the surface. Kira pulled the hood of her sweatshirt over her head. Closer to shore, he tried to get his footing but the mud shifted and what seemed solid fell away.

Heather Bell Adams is the author of Maranatha Road (West Virginia University Press), The Good Luck Stone (Haywire Books), and Starring Marilyn Monroe as Herself (forthcoming Regal House). Her work appears in the North Carolina Literary Review, Raleigh Review, The Thomas Wolfe Review, Orange Blossom Review, Reckon Review, and elsewhere. A lifelong North Carolinian, she served as the 2022 Piedmont Laureate.