Alligator attack.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to dispel the image of alligators circling hungrily in the water. It occurs to me I’m at a serious disadvantage going last. All the movement and chatter from the other girls’ crossings could have woken up whatever’s in that swamp. Which is probably a lot. Places like this are known to let tourists feed the gators to encourage them to return. It’s basically guaranteed to be full of loyal gators who look to humans for food. And now I know exactly why this swamp was chosen.
I tell myself to relax. The entrance is just six feet away, and gators probably can’t get into the tunnel. If I suspected there was one around, I could swim back to safety within thirty seconds. Surely alligators don’t attack that quickly.
Unsurprisingly, the thought doesn’t calm me.
I pop my knuckles. Tension fizzles out of my body with each satisfying crack. My feet slurp-suck in the mud as I step toward the water.
All right, Hope. You can do this. It’s just a matter of swimming fast. Confidently. You’ve swum before…for therapy. With a coach spotting you.
I shake myself out. It will be fine. I’ll be fine.
I bend low, take a deep breath that does nothing to slow the banging of my heart, and slink into the swamp
It’s warmer than I expected, like a bath left to cool to room temperature. That’s about the only pleasant thing about it. The water is so murky and cluttered with floating debris and reaching vines that I can’t see a thing, just flashes of movement where my hands thrash at the water. I should have realized before: It isn’t just about holding your breath for a long time. It’s about holding your breath for a long time in the dark, not knowing what could be swimming just feet from you, waiting to strike.
Fear clamps a tight fist around my chest, the first whisper of pressure appearing in my lungs. I push back the thought and plunge toward the place where I remember the marker to be. I can do this. My fingers bump into something. I grapple furiously and trace the outline of the tunnel. But by the time I’ve figured it out, the weight on my chest has expanded and the urge to breathe is unbearable. I let go of the tunnel and kick up, my body slicing through the sludge water. I gasp as my head breaks the surface, coughing and choking and sucking in frantic lungfuls of hot air.
“Are you okay?” Lyla calls.
I can’t answer. There’s a wad of phlegm blocking my airway that I need to work out. If Mom were here, she’d slug me on the back and it’d clear. But she isn’t, and I’m alone in this. I wade in the water, kicking savagely so my head doesn’t go under again. I finally work up the blockage and spit into the murky water. The tension in my chest breaks up, scatters apart, and I can breathe.
I hate that the girls are seeing this.
You don’t have to do this, I tell myself. Whatever the punishment is, it’s better than dying in a swamp tunnel on a dare. Mom’s right, you’re too sick.
But I don’t want Mom to be right. I’m already here, already in the water. Going back would be so humiliating. I know where the tunnel is now—I can dive back down and get through it in seconds. I can do this.
I blow out a calming breath, then fill my lungs with air and dive.
The blackness is disorienting, even the second time around. Fighting gravity, I plunge deeper and kick, swim, kick, until I find the tunnel, and then I’m inside, the space so small that roots claw at my skin from all angles. I have to remind myself that this is good news, that a gator couldn’t follow me in.
The pressure in my lungs is back too fast. I remember how far it is to the island and settle into a steady, rhythmic pace, swimming hard, pulling myself forward with the vines, reaching my foot down every so often to propel myself forward faster, faster, faster.
The tightening builds until my lungs feel blown up like a balloon, ready to pop. I have to breathe. Need to breathe.
Just a little bit farther, Hope. You can do it.
Don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic you’re fine you’re fine you’re fine.
Where is the opening?
My arms are weak, gelatinous. I know I need to move faster, but I can’t make my body comply.
Just as I have this thought, my foot hits mud instead of roots. I must have reached the end. I propel my body in a straight shot up, and my head breaks the surface.
I suck in a huge, desperate gulp of air; it razors down my raw throat as if it’s being sawed in half from the inside. I crawl out of the water and slump into the tall grass, coughing and hacking as breaths jerk in and out of my lungs. Goose bumps flash on my wet skin, hair plastered against my face. My eyes sting with mud. There’s cheering from the faraway shore.
I made it. I’m halfway done.
I should be happy, but I’m not. I can’t go back the way I came.