Fleur Bradley is the author of Daybreak on Raven Island and Midnight at the Barclay Hotel (Viking/PRH), the Double Vision trilogy (HarperCollins), as well as numerous short stories. Her work has been nominated for the Agatha and Anthony Award and has won the Colorado Book Award, among others.
As an author of mysteries for kids, Bradley is also a literacy advocate and speaks at events on how to reach reluctant readers. Originally from the Netherlands, Bradley lives in a small cottage in the foothills of the Colorado Rockies.
You can find Bradley online at fleurbradley.com.
There was a knock on the door at eleven o’clock Friday night. Sam wasn’t going to answer, but at least he could look through the peephole. It was low, on account of his wife Moira’s short stature. So Sam had to bend down to look.
It took him a second to realize he was looking right at someone’s eyeball. A green eye, with a slightly bloodshot white.
Sam was about to leave the door unanswered when the person stepped back. It was a kid, skinny in a dirty white tank top and shorts that were too big on him. Blond hair over his ears. The boy was maybe eight from the looks of him, but Sam knew he was actually twelve. This was his grandson, Finn.
Sam still thought about not opening the door—his daughter Abby stood right next to Finn and Abby was nothing but trouble. It wasn’t a nice thing to say about your own daughter, he knew that. But it was the truth. Sam stood there, feeling the Florida heat ooze in from the other side.
“Dad?” Abby called.
“All right,” he muttered, then reached for the doorknob.
Once he opened the door, Abby rolled in like a tsunami. “It’s hotter than hell out there,” she said by way of greeting. She hit Sam in the leg with a large duffel bag.
The boy stood on the doorstep, like he was waiting for permission. The last time Sam had seen the kid was at Moira’s funeral, five years ago. Finn had been rounder, healthier then.
Sam remembered how well-behaved the kid was. How he’d dropped a dandelion on Moira’s grave.
“Hi Finn,” Sam said. “Why don’t you come inside? We’re cooling all of Florida this way.”
Keep in mind that all drowning persons are maniacs.
Avoid coming within their grasp.
“I’m not hot,” Finn said but he came inside. Of course he wasn’t hot—the kid didn’t have an ounce of fat on him.
Sam felt like he’d lost something already, just letting them flood his space. He was happy alone. Plus, Abby was prone to thievery, depending on where she was on the ladder of recovery.
Moira’s ghost just looked at Abby with love, which made the whole thing worse somehow. They had never agreed on how to deal with their daughter when Moira was still alive, so it made sense to Sam that his dead wife would still think Abby could do no harm. Only Moira couldn’t talk these days, so she said everything with her eyes. Like Sam needed reminding.
Sam found Abby in the kitchen with a can of beer (his last) pressed to her forehead.
She popped the beer. Finn was already sitting at the table, quiet as a mouse. Sam still stood, feeling like he needed to keep some distance from the whole scene. “How are you, Abigail?” he asked, knowing she hated her full name.
She sighed and took a long sip of beer. At least it was clear where she was with her recovery. About rung number four on the ladder, Sam figured. And slipping.
That’s when Sam saw the bruises, large ones in various stages of healing. Some obviously fingers that had clamped around her neck, her arms. Abby took another sip of beer and started crying.
Sam looked for Moira, but she was no good to him here. Moira was a ghost, couldn’t talk, so Sam mostly muttered to her (something he couldn’t do now). Finn seemed undisturbed by the scene that was unfolding.
“Are you thirsty, Finn?” Sam asked. He opened the fridge, hoping there was something kid-friendly in there. “I have milk.”
Abby wiped her eyes and shook her head, then downed the last of her beer. Sam tried not to be irritated. That was a good beer, an IPA he picked up for special occasions only. She was drinking it like it was the cheap gas station stuff. “No milk. Gives him the runs.”
Finn shrugged and smiled as if to say, whatcha gonna do?
“Just give him some water,” Abby said. She threw out her can of beer and sighed. “I’m going to take our stuff back to my room.” She looked tired. Drunk, a little.
Sam felt a familiar sense of dread. Drunk Abby wasn’t even the worst of it. It was High Abby he worried about. That was rung number two, slipping to number one if things got really bad. Sam still regretted opening the door.
“Your old room’s my office now. Just take the guest room,” Sam said.
Abby looked incredulous. “You got rid of my stuff?” Like she was here every week. Like she hadn’t been gone for over a decade, couch surfing, living out of that duffel bag. But he thought she’d been okay, sort of. With this new guy who’d come to the funeral. Dave, or Dan, or something. A guy who did boat tours for tourists, in Daytona Beach. “Your things are just boxed up, in the attic,” Sam said. “I needed work space.”
Abby didn’t say anything else but took the duffel and disappeared down the hall.
Leaving Sam with the boy. Finn scratched his side absentmindedly. He could probably use a shower, Sam thought. The boy had gotten himself a glass of water, like he was already at home. The kid needed a burger. Or more like five.
Sam sat down at the kitchen table, next to Moira, who had taken Abby’s spot. “You want to join your mom?” Sam asked.
“She’s going to sleep. For a long time,” Finn added, sipping his water. “She always does after a fight and beer.”
Sam nodded. Moira’s face was sad now. She was going to cry next—Sam could see it coming. “When was the last time you ate?” he asked and stood.
“Cereal, this morning. With soy milk.” Finn didn’t seem to know he was supposed to have more to eat than that. Especially considering his tiny stature. Abby was lucky Social Services hadn’t taken the kid away yet.
Sam opened the freezer. “I started this thing where I cook lots of meals in one go. It’s called meal prep.” He lifted a few containers and said, “I got chicken parmigiana, lasagna, steak stir-fry, spaghetti Bolognese …”
Finn looked unsure.
“You’ll like the spaghetti, I bet—it’s my favorite.” Sam took the container out and put it in the microwave. When it beeped, Sam put in another Bolognese. And a few minutes later, they both sat at the table, eating spaghetti at midnight. It was peaceful.
Finn ate in silence, finishing the whole thing. Then he said softly, “That was the best meal I ever had.”
To the average person the art of swimming is shrouded in mystery.
It was six the next morning when Sam got up—he always woke at the same time, no matter how late he went to bed. Sam made coffee for two. Abby could use some sobering up once she got out of bed, he figured.
It wasn’t until the pot was done brewing that he heard someone move around. In his office.
Clutching his mug of coffee, Sam found Finn. The boy was browsing the book titles, hands behind his back, careful not to touch any of them.
Sam was a book dealer of sorts, on the side. He would buy old books, ones he knew he could get a buck for, and then he sold them on the internet. It was a nice bit of extra cash, with Social Security being what it was, and his pension not quite stretching along with inflation. The book selling kept him afloat.
“You have a lot of books,” Finn said softly. “What are these?” He pointed to the stack of tiny books, leaflets almost.
“They’re called Little Blue Books. People would buy them long ago for a nickel, to learn a new skill or a language or what have you.” Sam stepped closer and picked one up. The valuable ones were in plastic sleeves because the paper was almost a hundred years old. It could turn to dust right in your hands. “Is your mom still asleep?”
Finn nodded.
Sam had planned to do a yard sale run, see what was out there. It was how he found his books. And he couldn’t very well leave the kid behind.
So Sam said, “Are you up for a little expedition, Finn?”
The three great secrets of proper swimming are confidence, correct breathing and relaxation.
They had breakfast. Then Sam helped the kid find a cleanish shirt, and they both got into the car. It was Moira’s; Sam liked driving it because the ghost of her would be guaranteed to tag along. Moira was in the back. It wasn’t too hot yet, but the humidity already clung to Sam like a wet blanket.
The kid got into the passenger seat and for a moment Sam considered asking him if he still needed a car seat. But then he thought better of it. It would probably embarrass Finn—Sam had been on the smaller side himself at that age. “Your growth spurt will come,” he told Finn as he backed out of the garage.
It was eight in the morning by the time they hit Sam’s favorite neighborhood. It was in an older, more established section of town with mature trees and cul-de-sacs, like harbors in the sea.
There was a neighborhood-wide yard sale happening and Sam wanted to get there early. He parked the car, then he and the boy browsed everyone’s wares. Finn walked with his hands behind his back, looking like an old man as he let his eyes run over the bric-a-brac, old furniture, and piles of clothing. Sam did his own browsing but kept an eye on the boy.
A few stops in, Finn called out and raised an arm, like he was asking for permission to speak. “Grandpa!”
Sam walked over. “What, Finn?”
The boy pointed to a big box full of Little Blue Books.
Now, that was a good find.
On the very top of the stacks of little books, there was an almost-perfect condition Little Blue Book, number 1206: How to Teach Yourself to Swim.
Finn reached out, but then thought better of it.
Sam negotiated for the box, then handed the boy the booklet. Finn smiled and held it like it was a prize.
They bought a few more books and some barely worn T-shirts and shorts that were Finn’s size.
They headed home with their purchases. Sam wanted to ask Finn if he could swim, but then realized that, too, might be a sensitive subject. So they drove in silence.
The boy was growing on Sam.
Keep legs together, knees straight, and toes pointed well back.
Abby was awake—very much so. Clean and sobered up, she was cleaning the kitchen and smiled as they came in. “Good hunting?”
Finn nodded and took off to the guest room.
Sam put the boxes in the office to be inventoried later and went back to the kitchen.
“I have an interview,” Abby told Sam as he surveyed the fridge for sandwich ingredients. “In an hour.”
“That’s great.” Sam mustered up a smile. Moira wasn’t around—he could’ve used the support right now.
“At the Quick Save, down the road. It isn’t much, but it’s a paycheck.” Abby smiled, uncertain. Her hands had a slight tremor—the addict’s dead giveaway. Sam knew it well. She said softly, “Eventually, Finn and I can move out on our own.”
Sam nodded. They still hadn’t talked about the proverbial elephant in the room: her burly boyfriend whose name Sam couldn’t remember, the one with strong fingers. Abby had covered up the bruises with makeup. She was good at it, too. Experienced, Sam thought.
“I’m not going back to Doug. Not this time,” Abby said. Her eyes were welling up and she dabbed at them with a paper towel. “He’s going to kill me.”
This had occurred to Sam as well. He missed Moira—she would know just what to say and do. “Has he hurt the boy?” Sam asked softly.
Abby shook her head, but Sam could spot an Abby lie. He tried not to imagine that burly piece-of-something Doug, hitting Finn.
“What about the other stuff? Are you just drinking, or … ?” He let the words hang in the air. Tried not to remember the violence Abby had once inflicted against Moira, the stealing, the time she wrapped his car (a perfectly good minivan, great for hauling) around a lamp post. Then there was the rehab. It had taken them years to pay off the debt on three stints at Peaceful Acres. Not that it did any good.
“God, Dad,” Abby said, tossing the paper towel on the counter. “It’s always about that with you, isn’t it?” She stormed away, slamming the door to the guest room.
Sam sighed. Then he thought about Finn and the Little Blue Book.
The big bugaboo that the prospective swimmer must overcome is the fear of water.
They’d bought the house because Moira liked the walking trails, and the community center that had yoga classes, even a doctor who took patients, and a hairdresser who came once a week. Sam hated it now—the HOA fees were almost two hundred dollars a month, money he could be spending on food or good beer on occasions other than just holidays.
But the community center had a pool. So that Sunday he took Finn, after the boy dug a pair of faded swimming trunks from the bottom of that duffel bag. They both stood at the pool’s edge now.
“Have you had lessons, Finn?” Sam asked the boy.
Finn nodded at first, unsure. But then he gazed at the glimmering water and shook his head, just the once. You couldn’t very well live on the Florida coast and not know how to swim, Sam thought. It was downright dangerous.
Sam stepped in at the shallow part. The pool was of the wading variety on this side; if you walked to the other end, there was a deep section of the pool for swimming laps. There were several people who Sam had seen around the neighborhood. Moira would know their names but Sam never bothered.
He said to Finn, “We’ll stay where we can touch the bottom, see?” The boy nodded but stood frozen. Terrified.
“Come on, Finn.” Sam looked to Moira, who tried to take Finn’s hand but just caught air. But then that’s the bugger about not being alive anymore. So Sam reached out.
Finn clutched Sam’s hand, with sweaty fingers that clamped on his like a crab.
“You can do it,” Sam said, hoping he sounded encouraging.
Finn stepped forward, one foot in front of the other. As he got closer, Sam could see the bruises, still red and screaming, on the boy’s bony shoulders. Was it that Doug character who had done this to Finn, just as he had done to Abby?
Sam forced himself to focus on the water, wading in until Finn was up to his waist.
“Have you ever floated, Finn?” he asked. Sam was worried his neighbors might see the bruises on the kid and think it was Sam’s doing.
Finn shook his head. He was still looking at the water like it might swallow him whole.
“You can lay back, see?” Sam got in the water and showed the boy how you could float. It was his favorite thing to do, back when Moira would come for her water aerobics and he would tag along. The water made everything quiet.
But Finn wasn’t having it. He shook his head.
“Maybe next time,” Sam said as he stood back up, realizing that perhaps he was in over his head here.
Sam had a swift memory right then, like a splash of water in his face. He’d been here once with Abby, when she was young and he was trying to give Moira a break. He’d taken Abby (while he was three sheets to the wind, at least) for her first swimming lesson. It had been a disaster, Abby refusing to get in the water. Screaming, I’m never coming back here again.
Now, Sam and Finn stood there a while longer, Sam with the water to his knees and the boy to his waist, watching the other (mostly old) people go about their swimming.
After some time, Finn pulled Sam’s hand, just a little. “He throws me in, clothes and all,” the boy said softly. “Out in the ocean. Into the dark water.”
Never dive with your coat on.
Abby didn’t get the job. Sam imagined it might have something to do with her criminal record. She was drinking when they got home—whiskey, straight from the bottle. It was his good stuff, the drink he’d been saving for when Moira was supposed to be in remission. Of course, that had never happened.
Finn went right back to the guest room. The kid probably knew better than to stick around for one of these episodes.
The house phone rang. Sam still had a landline—just never got rid of it, even though Moira had kept telling him no one called people at home anymore, back when she was still alive.
“Don’t answer that,” Abby said, slurring her words. “It’s Doug.”
Sam picked up anyway. “Put her on,” the voice demanded. Doug, thinking he owned everyone. Sam put the horn down with shaking hands, reminded of the bruises on Finn. When it rang again, Sam yanked the cord from the wall.
Finn stood out in the hall, holding his wet swimming trunks.
“Let’s wash our stuff,” Sam said to him and took the boy out to the garage where the washing machine was.
By the time they got back to the kitchen, Abby was gone.
“She’s sleeping again,” Finn said.
*
Don’t hold yourself stiff or tense.
Sam spent the rest of the day cataloguing his book haul and by dinner time, Finn was taking two plastic meal containers from the freezer.
“Is your mom not joining us?” Sam asked as he watched the boy operate the microwave.
“She went out,” Finn said. “Looking for jobs.”
Sam nodded, but that feeling of dread had now set up camp permanently, like a tidal wave sloshing deep in his gut. The dinner (stir-fry this time) gave him heartburn, just like food used to when Abby was at her worst.
Moira was crying at the kitchen table.
Remember that the more you relax the easier it is for you to swim.
Sam decided to take the boy to the community center early on Monday. Why not, Sam thought. At the rate things were going, Finn and Abby would be living with him for a while. Plenty of time to teach the kid to swim.
They stood at the edge of the pool again, staring at the water. Moira was off in the deep end, doing her water aerobics with the class. Not helpful.
After some time, Sam asked, “Would he take you out on the boat?”
Finn nodded. “He said he had to branch out.”
Whatever that meant, Sam thought, but he had a suspicion.
“Why would he throw you in?” Sam asked, regretting it immediately. Traumatizing the boy here by the pool was the last thing he needed to be doing.
But Finn said, matter-of-fact, “He does it for fun.”
Sadistic bastard. Sam was about to step out of the pool, deciding perhaps this was a bad idea. But then the kid stepped forward.
Finn said, “Fridays are for transport. Then we go out on the boat at night, into the black water.”
Sam could guess what they were transporting in the night. Most likely, Doug was using his boat to make some real money. Getting the stuff Abby liked to snort and inject.
Finn said softly, “It’s a secret. While we wait to meet the men on the other boat, they laugh and drink. And then they throw me in the water. They count how long I last.”
“Who is this they?”
“Mom and Doug.”
Always remember to take a good deep breath before each dive.
Abby slept the Monday morning away then left around three to go to work. Apparently, she’d gotten a job at a bar.
Not a great situation for an alcoholic and an addict, but at least she was away from Finn.
It was a good thing Abby was gone. Sam was seething, distracting himself with packaging his most recent sales for shipping.
He took the boy to the post office later that day. The kid was thumbing through his Little Blue Book, the paper chipping at the edges.
“Confidence is seventy-five percent of the art of swimming,” Finn read. “It says so, right in here.”
Sam wondered what the other twenty-five percent was.
Keep your body tense until the dive is completed.
They went to the pool again the next day, their swimming trunks still damp at the waist from the day before. This time, Finn walked ahead into the water until it got to his middle.
“Way to go, kid!” one of Sam’s neighbors called from the deep end. “Teaching your grandson to swim, are you Sam?” the guy asked.
Sam couldn’t remember the man’s name but did vaguely recall a conversation they’d had at one of the community barbecues. Back when Moira was still alive. The man was a retired cop, Sam knew. Better keep him far away, lest he saw the yellowing bruises on Finn. Sam answered, “Yes, working on it!”
Finn gave the man a thumbs-up, though he still just stood there.
Then Sam remembered where he also recognized the cop-man from: his AA meetings. The ones he didn’t go to anymore.
He kept the smile pasted on his face and slowly looked away, running his fingers through the water.
Can’t you feel yourself floating to the surface, how the water is LIFTING YOU?
Abby came home after midnight, smelling of beer and that familiar bar stink. Sam had spent a good chunk of her formative years in places just like it. Leaving Moira on her own to raise a strong-willed and moody daughter.
Even back then, he knew it was wrong to be hanging out at the bar after work when Moira needed him. But feeling the alcohol—first beer, then scotch—flood his system was all Sam could do to make it through the day. Drowning his feelings.
Maybe this was his penance, Sam thought to himself as he made a grocery list that Tuesday afternoon. After twenty years of Sam’s absence, Moira’d had enough. Just months before her diagnosis, she’d threatened to leave Sam. Over the drinking, the absent nature of him.
He went to AA so Moira would stay. Then there were the doctor visits, the chemo hell, and then nothing else seemed to matter. After the funeral, he’d tossed his one-year sober chip in the kitchen junk drawer.
Abby was long gone by then. Only visiting sporadically with little Finn in tow.
Now here Sam was, taking care of Finn while she was falling apart. But was it the drink, the drugs, the bad men like this Doug? Or was it Abby herself who was the bad news? What kind of person throws their kid in the ocean for entertainment?
Moira had never been able to see Abby for who she really was. When Sam was honest with himself, truly honest, he knew his daughter was the real bad news. Like father, like daughter. Beyond saving.
It was Wednesday when Abby came home during dinner, long before her shift would’ve been over.
“Well, I’m fired,” she said, carrying a brown bag with a bottle of god-knows-what inside. “Stupid jerk, couldn’t keep his hands off me.”
Finn ate his lasagna without a word.
“Don’t you have anything to say?” Abby shot at Sam.
He didn’t. Sam was so tired of his own daughter that even dead Moira’s pleading eyes couldn’t get him to speak.
Abby huffed and left the kitchen. But not before she plugged the landline back into the wall.
Think this over. The water is LIFTING YOU!
Doug showed up on Thursday morning, right as Sam and Finn were heading to the community center. Sam watched the guy’s outline through the tinted truck windows, from his rearview mirror, as Abby climbed into the souped-up vehicle.
They roared away. Finn didn’t even look up from reading his little book.
At the pool, Finn walked into the water without hesitation. He started a breaststroke carefully, all on his own.
Well, I’ll be damned, Sam thought.
After some time, Finn even let Sam hold him up while the boy floated and practiced his leg moves.
“It’s so quiet underwater, Grandpa,” the boy said afterward. “Like you’re dead and in heaven.”
Sam decided to take the kid for a walk that afternoon. Sure, it was the usual miserable Florida hot, but kids needed time outside. At least, that was what Moira used to say.
They ran into the man from the pool, the retired cop (and AA member) whose name Sam couldn’t remember.
“Joining Grandparents Group, Sam?” the guy asked. His grin was big, full of dentures, and his hair perfectly styled and obviously recently cut. Probably at the community center hairdresser.
“Yes,” the boy answered for Sam, with a sneaky smile. “Right, Grandpa?”
“Right,” Sam answered.
As it turned out, Grandparents Group wasn’t all bad. There were a couple of young assistant types in bright orange polo shirts with the neighborhood logo. They were doing crafts with the kids, while the adults chatted over iced tea. Moira would’ve loved it.
“It’s a new thing they started here,” his neighbor said. They both worked on writing their names on a sticker label with a marker. FRANK his said, so there was no more awkwardness over not knowing the man’s name. The kids were making some sort of kite.
It wasn’t bad. Sam mostly listened to FRANK (and later, ANNE and GEORGE) chatter on about grandparenting, and how it was bad to park kids in front of the TV.
“My daughter does it all the time,” Anne said with a tone of disapproval.
Sam wondered what they’d think of throwing your kid into the ocean for fun.
They walked home close to dinner time, with Finn carefully cradling the kite he made.
“I’m going to hang it on the wall.”
Sam nodded, enjoying the breeze that had decided to roll in.
“Is that okay, Grandpa?” Finn asked.
That’s when Sam realized that the kid was planning to hang it on the guest room wall. His room.
Because the boy thought Sam’s house was home.
Practice swimming in a suit of old clothes. This will accustom you to being burdened with unusual weight in the water.
Sam couldn’t sleep that Thursday night. He tried to think of all the ways of explaining to the kid that this wasn’t his home. That once his mom cleaned herself up and found a job (three rungs up the ladder of recovery, but still), they would be moving out.
When Sam made his coffee that Friday morning, almost a full week since he’d erroneously opened his door to Abby and Finn, he realized something was different. It was quiet.
No rustling of the boy, nor sound of Finn puttering around the kitchen. And no Moira, hanging around at a distance, like a buoy offshore.
Sam checked the guest room. The bed was tousled, but there was no duffel bag. No Abby.
No Finn.
Sam stopped breathing and held onto the doorframe like a life raft. Sam wanted a drink but knew there wasn’t a goddamned drop in the house, not even his good remission-that-never-came whiskey.
He spent the day cleaning. Washing the sheets he took off the guest bed. Looking for Moira but knowing he wouldn’t see her. She was with Finn.
The kite lay in the corner of the room, forgotten. Sam hung it right above the bed.
Fridays are for transport, Sam remembered Finn saying. They would go out to meet another boat, off the coast. It’s a secret.
Sam made a phone call.
Every swimmer should be prepared to act as a lifesaver on a moment’s notice.
Sam picked Frank up and drove to Daytona Beach. Thankfully, Frank didn’t mention AA. All Sam could think about was the kid in the deep, cold ocean water, trying to stay afloat, paddling with his small hands, too frail for a twelve-year-old.
Then Sam made a promise, to Moira’s ghost and to himself. He would go to those meetings, keep away from all alcohol. He’d even go to Grandparents Group. Just let Finn be alive.
When Sam and Frank got there, they waited on the docks. Frank had made a few calls in the car, getting the Coast Guard moving. Now Sam paced, hands behind his back. Frank was talking to the cops on the docks, his hair mussed by the coastal wind, not once flashing his dentures.
Then the Coast Guard ship came back.
Finn was wrapped in a blue towel, shoulders stooped, all of fifty pounds soaking wet. No Abby.
One of the Coast Guard guys talked to Frank, then met Sam. “The boat was right where you said it was.” He added in a low voice so that Finn couldn’t hear, “Those assholes left the kid on his own, in the water. Good thing he’s a strong swimmer.”
Finn gave Sam a wet hug. “They tossed me in the water,” Finn said, his voice hoarse as the paramedic checked him over. “And the other boat came. But then the grown-ups got into a fight and the other guys shot Doug. Then Mom jumped out of the boat.”
Sam remembered a young, defiant Abby after her first swimming lesson. I’m not going back. He felt his blood go cold.
“I tried to teach Mom swimming, Grandpa. Like the little book said.” Finn was crying, giant teardrops dripping down his cheeks, his chin. “But she was too scared. And too sleepy.”
Sam swallowed. He thought of Abby, now dead somewhere in the depths of the ocean. With Moira.
“But I stayed hidden behind the boat,” Finn said, wiping his cheeks. “And I swam, Grandpa. And then I floated for a while. Just like you taught me.”
Sam gave him a sad smile. “Of course you did.”
*I love old stuff and stumbled upon a small box of Little Blue Books at a flea market. They’re pocket-sized booklets from the 1930s that are focused on teaching the (working-class) adult reader a new skill; Little Blue Book number 1206 is titled How to Teach Yourself to Swim. The author was clearly getting lost in the joy of swimming in a lyrical and quirky way that just demanded to be part of a story. These rules for swimming made the perfect framework for me to explore redemption, and how (grand)parenting really brings out the worst—and best—in us.
Like the Little Blue Book 1206, this story is an odd duck. I’m grateful to Dark Yonder and this anthology for the recognition.