He shivered and stood, the cooling air of the fall night creeping through the cracks in the walls and pushing against the remnants of his fire. He stepped across the bare floor to the other side of the gazebo and grabbed a piece of wood from the stack near the door.
He froze.
Someone was standing in the water just off the shore.
He could see the dark outline of a person against the shimmering calm of the lake’s surface. The moon threw just enough light for Lance to make out a head, shoulders, and arms that dangled in the frigid water.
He stood there, staring at the figure, not wanting to look away in the event it faded from sight. He felt a blade of fear pass through his stomach. Just as he began to move closer to the glass to get a clearer view, an errant ember flared and obscured the view through the window with light. Lance turned, and in two bounds he had grabbed the shotgun from the floor and ripped the door open.
The dew was cold, but Lance barely registered it. As he jogged toward the lapping shore, he fumbled with the flashlight on the end of the gun until a spear of white light abruptly pierced the shadows off to his left. He swung the gun around, his intent not to harm but to reveal what was there. The darkness fled before the beam, which glared off the lake’s face.
Shoulders, so white they looked to be made of marble, and a blond head were just slipping beneath the ripples as his light flooded the area. Lance stopped and held the gun steady, pointed toward the place where the crown of hair had vanished. Nothing moved. There were no swirls or bubbles to indicate something had been there. Nothing.
Without hesitating, he doubled back and dashed up the rise to the glowing gazebo, his breath beginning to burn in his lungs. The interior warmth of the structure felt wonderful on his bare skin, but he didn’t stop to enjoy it. After setting the shotgun down, he spun and began throwing log after log onto the fire. Soon, flames were dancing excitedly around their new dinner, licking the bark and stray fibers from the wood.
He turned and knelt beside the shotgun, the idea in his mind stupid and rash, but nonetheless unavoidable, as if he were tipping down a steep hill, the skis beneath his feet gathering speed until there was no chance of stopping. His fingers fumbled at the fasteners on the light. How had Stub done that? He touched what felt like a flattened wing nut on one side of the light and twisted. That did it. The flashlight unhooked easily from the bottom of the gun and rested in his hand. He gave the fire one last look, and then jogged out of the gazebo, back into the cool darkness.
As he neared the shoreline, already shivering as the air cut around him, he mentally prepared himself for what was to come. He tried to imagine what the water would feel like and how deep he would have to go, but then his feet were wet and all other thought left him.
The water was hundreds of wasp stings on his bare legs. Soon, his thighs were under, and then his waist. With another click of the flashlight, the beam spread out on the freezing water. Lance lowered it below the surface, testing whether its claim of waterproofing held true or not; he didn’t want to be stranded in inky darkness if it failed. He swung the light in an arc around him. The image of hotel pools at midnight came to him, their depths illuminated by their watertight bulbs. Satisfied with the light, Lance stepped farther out, his feet finding a few sharp rocks and the sludgy bottom, which squeezed between his toes.
The water rippled near his chest, and he felt the lake bottom fall away. He’d reached the drop-off. His eyes sought the moon one last time as he breathed deeply in and out, in quick succession. With a lunging motion, he dove forward and kicked his body down.