Chapter Eight

Noise (n.) Unwanted random variation in light or colour present in images, usually produced by image sensor malfunction or inconsistent film grain and likened to visual “static”; unwanted or meaningless data intermixed with relevant information; disturbance in an electric circuit that interferes with reception of a signal; a loud, surprising, irritating, or unwanted sound; any sound.

 

Scott does lose his voice.

It’s a gradual process that starts small; there is a wheezing tickle he first notices when saying thank you to the cashier at the grocery Friday afternoon that gets scratchier as he spends Saturday filling pages in his notebook with drawings of King’s College Chapel in Cambridge. His coughing gets more insistent through the day Sunday as he prints photos in the darkroom, and by dinner, his voice is a gravelly croak.

Hi, something’s happening. Thought I should let you know

What’s up?

My voice is just about gone

Excellent!

?? Yeah, not so much

Don’t worry, this is good!

:/ I sound like I ate broken glass and chased it with petrol

Brilliant! Seriously, good news. I’ve got to hear this. Can I call?

Yes. I might have to talk in morse code though

Scott smiles and shakes his head. Of course Jason would think this is brilliant.

“Hello?” There is excitement in Jason’s voice. Scott chuckles uneasily; this whole situation is suddenly terrifying.

“Are you there? Come on, let’s hear it.”

“Yes, hi.” It’s barely a whisper. Scott clears his throat again, to no effect. “I’m okay. Just through with dinner. I ate gravel and frogs.” The words are half-formed, and they make Scott laugh again.

“Any pain?”

Scott clears his throat and feels the heavy lump. “No, it’s just kind of tight.”

“Wow, I’m impressed. That didn’t take long.”

“Three days. Is that good?” Strangely pleased, Scott picks at a stray thread unravelling from the seam of his jeans.

“Perfect. Sounds like things are shifting around in there.”

“I guess?”

“So, it’s not locked in anymore, yeah? But your throat is tightening up, squeezing down on it. Not quite ready to let it go, I think.”

Scott knows that to be true, but he doesn’t want to admit it, and he doesn’t want to lie. He pivots just far enough away. “I’m worried.”

“I’m not.”

“What should I do?” It’s just a whisper. Scott clears his throat and tries again. “What should I do?”

“A hot shower with some steam might do some good. Tea and other liquids. And keep your jaw relaxed. Sleep.”

“But what if…” Scott closes his eyes and swallows. What if I can’t fix this? What if I can’t ever let this go?

“You’ll be fine. Give it some time.”

Scott snaps the thread and begins to pull it apart until it frays. “How much time?”

“That’s going to depend on you.”

Of course it does. Scott wants to say it’ll be quick, he’ll get right on it. Don’t worry, Jason, you can count on me. But that means he’ll have to—

“You know, this reminds me of something I read a long time ago. It was an article in some science magazine, I think… Anyway, there’s this thing that happens, with caterpillars? They completely break down in the chrysalis, did you know that? I mean, entirely into mush before they change.”

“Um, okay?”

“Just like you. Breaking down before something new can happen.”

“Wait—” Scott tries to make his voice sound offended, but fails. “I’m an insect now?”

Jason laughs. “Yes, yes you are. Sorry.”

“No, it’s uh…weird, but I get it.” Scott recalls the prints he’s made of the film from the other night that are still drying in the bathroom.

“This is hard work, you know? But your body knows what to do. So. I’m not worried.”

Even though Scott has his doubts, it’s hard to argue with Jason’s confidence. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“Do. And you’re still up for floating tomorrow, yeah?”

A little blip of nerves flares up in Scott’s chest. Their field trip. He’s looked at the float centre’s website four times, checked and double-checked the address and the route to get there, and committed to memory the FAQs, particularly: What effects does floating have on the body? Might I get bored or frightened? and Is floating successful for everyone?

Scott rubs his forehead and then pushes a lock of hair behind his ear. “Yeah. Meet there at one forty-five, right?”

“Right. And remember, probably best not to eat anything the hour before.”

“All right. Thanks.”

“And Scott, about your voice. If you want to talk? I mean, really say things out loud. To me, or…even just to yourself? That would help too.”

Say things.

“All right,” Scott says again. “Thanks.”

“Take care.”

Scott takes his calendar that stands propped up on his bedside cabinet, puts it on his lap, and takes the cap off the Sharpie. The marker makes a little squeak against the shiny paper as he marks off the day. His voice is croaky and dark. “You too.”

*

In his dream, Scott has two healthy arms.

He looks down at his shirtless self, and his skin is smooth and tan. The sunshine is intense and close, and judging by the palm trees and puffy white clouds, this must be some tropical island.

Scott and Omran sit together in the shallow end of an outdoor swimming pool, the clean blue water up to their waists, talking and laughing and watching the kids that splash around them. Omran tosses them a beach ball as Scott looks over his shoulder to see Jason sitting on the edge of the pool, kicking his feet gently in the water. He leans back on his hands and tilts his face to the sun, drinking in its warmth and light. It’s a hot summer day that smells lightly of sunblock and chlorine. The three of them are together, and Scott is happy.

Scott turns to Omran to properly study his face. He had forgotten the strength in Omran’s steady gaze, and the way his eyebrows curve down at the edges. Omran’s mouth moves, but Scott can’t make out what he says. He’s leaning in closer when he notices the little girl in front of them getting pulled off balance and falling in up to her chest.

The water feels colder suddenly, like a current has slid in around them, and they aren’t in the pool anymore, but in the sea at a rocky beach. A grey wind picks up, bringing with it the menacing odour of the briny underbelly of the ocean. Omran points at a wave surging in the distance. Scott watches it for a moment but looks down when the water pulls so hard around his legs that he has trouble standing. When he looks up, the wave is gaining speed, growing impossibly fast and high, and he realises with cold alarm it is coming for them, and they won’t be able to outrun it. He sprints toward land, but soon the rocks shift under his feet and the water slogs around his legs like mud. It’s happening too fast. The roar of the wave gets louder and people are starting to scream.

But wait. Omran.

Scott left him. He has to go back. And Jason, where is Jason? How could Scott be so careless, so selfish? He turns to face the wall of green water three storeys high, with adults and children suspended inside it, ready to crash over them. Omran is getting ready to dive under, but it’s hopeless, there is no time, it’s too massive and heavy and there is nowhere to go. Where is Jason?

Scott’s vision blurs from sea salt wind and crying. He hears himself scream, “No, no!” because God fucking damn it, not again, why, fucking FUCKING GOD WHY, and all he can do is close his eyes and brace for the—

*

“No!” Scott wakes with a jerk, his shout echoing in the dim room. “No, no…” he says weakly as he looks around, trying to recognise something. His eyes catch on the framed tree print on the wall, and then his desk with his black notebook and messenger bag hanging from the chair.

He collapses on his back, the dream still alive in his mind, making him shudder. Without turning his head, he reaches to the night table for his phone. Two thirty a.m. This hasn’t happened in a while—a nightmare, a screaming, jolt-awake nightmare.

He wheezes out a dry cough and opens WhatsApp, then chooses Omran’s name.

I fucked up again.

Scott stares at the screen awhile, wondering if all of this has come rushing back because he put the calendar down in Jason’s bag. Maybe he shouldn’t have done that.

It was a wave this time.

A huge fucking wave.

I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t.

I’m sorry.

As his heartbeat slows, Scott notices for the first time that the flat is eerily quiet, and his ears aren’t ringing. He can still hear the screams of the people at the beach, and the echo of his own “no” bouncing against the walls of the room, but beyond them, he can hear the hum of his refrigerator and the low buzz of the lamp. He can hear the rustle of his body against the sheets. He can even hear a lone car on the street beyond his closed window at this early hour.

But he listens for Omran’s voice answering him, saying anything at all, and he doesn’t hear a word.

*

“Do I have to put your phone number down? You’re going to be sitting right here.”

Scott and Jason are looking at the float centre’s intake form, stopped at Emergency Contact. A few cups of tea this morning have smoothed Scott’s voice to a quiet rasp.

“Nah, just put my name. They know me.”

Scott nods. In fact, when he’d arrived, Jason had been behind the counter with the handsome, tattooed proprietor, talking animatedly as they gestured to the centre’s computer. Scott was distracted from his jitters by a small twinge of jealousy when he saw they were close enough to brush shoulders. They were in their element, talking shop with their heads together, and for a second, Scott felt inexplicably out of place. But then Jason looked up and saw him, stepped around the counter, and said, without turning back, “Here he is, Drew. This is Scott.” Jason’s smile had warmed Scott from the inside, and the flutter of whatever that was folded up and retreated when they shook hands.

“Are you going to get a burger while I’m in there?” Scott asks, giving in to another layer of nerves.

“Nah, I’ll be right here. No burgers for ninety minutes. Let’s synchronise our watches.” Jason looks up at him with a shrug and a smile. “Oops, I don’t have one.”

“I’m gonna be fine,” Scott says dismissively, though his hand shakes a bit as he moves on to the next set of questions with Jason looking on over his shoulder.

Do you have a history of, or are you currently experiencing anxiety, depression, PTSD, addiction, panic attacks, eating disorder or other emotional issue? He circles panic attacks, and a moment later, anxiety. He can feel Jason’s agreement, although he doesn’t look up from the sheet. For fuck’s sake, this better be the last one of these I ever fill out.

Two women sit across from them, sipping tea. Scott can hear their conversation plainly over the quiet music. One woman, who has an honest face and no-nonsense tone of voice is talking about how her migraines have all but disappeared since she began floating in April.

Scott leans in toward Jason. “Do you think that’s true?”

“I do. But everybody’s experience is different.”

A man comes out of the back hallway into the waiting area, his greyish hair falling in damp pieces over his ears. His cheeks are rosy, and he walks more quickly than his age would suggest, giving Scott a nod as he passes.

Scott signs the release section, agreeing that the float proprietor will in no way be responsible if Scott falls, slips, trips, drowns, faints, blacks out, or suffers a seizure or other medical emergency while on the premises. He had no idea so much could go wrong floating in just twenty-five centimetres of water; his knees wobble a bit as he walks up to the desk with the clipboard.

Jason must notice how he blows the air out of his mouth as he takes his seat again. “A bit nervous now?”

Scott looks around the room—at the ladies who are so at ease and the man at the counter, making another appointment. If they can do it, it can’t be that hard. Right? But. “I guess I am, a little. It’s…a long time.”

“You can come out early if you like. Just do what you feel comfortable with. Do that breathing thing, to help you relax. You’re good at that. And who knows, you might fall asleep. I do that sometimes. That’d be fine too.”

The thought of getting relaxed enough to sleep in the float tank seems preposterous, and the possibility of having a nightmare makes Scott shake his head and pick at his fingernails. He clears his throat and turns to Jason, who looks more real somehow, out here in the world, than he does back at his office. Outside the confines of his treatment rooms, there is still some kind of power that wafts off him, made of muscle and skin that simmers under the shell of his clothes. Scott almost can’t believe this is the same Jason who has seen and touched just about every inch of him, who has prayed over him and steered them through storms.

“Can I tell you something?”

“’Course.”

Scott takes a breath. “I had this dream last night.” Jason is interested in his dreams; maybe he will understand, or interpret it or whatever, and maybe Scott can get some of his nerves out if he says it out loud. Maybe Scott could ask Jason if it’s true that, as a part of him suspects, the dream means that Scott is a terrible person.

Scott recounts it like an action sequence from a disaster movie with his weak, whispery voice. Sitting here now, he can see the pages he drew in his notebook of it, but also smell that sinister deep-sea scent and feel the devastating pull of the undertow. His shoulders curve over as if to brace against getting hit with the wave as he tells the last part, about how he turned his back on Omran, and could only wait for impact.

“And then I woke up, just before it hit.”

They sit in silence for a minute, Jason making no move to respond, so Scott waits, loosely registering that the ladies are standing up and following Drew down the hall, leaving the two of them alone in the waiting room. The story of Scott’s failure sits between them like a dark stone wall. Scott is content to sit behind it for now because he feels naked; he crosses his arms in front of him in an attempt to cover up.

Jason leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees. His voice is gentle, and his eyes are kind. “Something’s coming, isn’t it? You can feel it. It’s big. And you can’t run from it.”

Wait.

The dream is about…the future? But Scott thought surely it was about the past, one more in a line of nightmares where Scott dropped the ball, was caught unawares, and fucked up royally, left to do nothing but watch Omran pay. Jason’s interpretation has him rethinking it, and he rubs his damp palms against his jeans. There is something huge, something heavy rising out of his throat to slam him into the sand and leave him for dead or sweep him away, out to sea.

They sit together for only a minute, Jason waiting for Scott to respond, before Drew approaches them.

“We’re ready for you now. Come with me.”

*

After a stop at the restroom so Scott can have a quick wee (“And blow your nose while you’re at it,” Jason had suggested, so he does), the three of them meet in Scott’s float room. Drew stands in front of them in what seems like a large, dimly lit bathroom with a shower in one corner and the float pod in the other. The pod itself might be something out of a science fiction movie, a bright white egg with water inside, and a lid that folds down on hydraulic hinges. It looks to Scott like a massive smiling clam, ready to eat him.

Scott takes in the instructions as Drew explains them, trying to keep it all straight. Strip down, put in earplugs, shower, wash hair, no conditioner, rinse well, dry face, float. He dips his fingers into the water, and it feels warm, but not hot. The humid air feels good in his throat.

“If there are no more questions, we’ll leave you to it,” Drew says, gesturing to Jason as if to sweep him out as well.

Jason puts up a hand. “I’ll be right out.”

“Sure.” Drew nods, and the door makes a quiet click as he closes it behind him.

Scott smiles nervously, running his hand over the smooth edge of the pod’s open lid. Jason moves the folding chair closer to the pod and lays a towel on the seat.

“Let’s put this here, yeah? That way it’s close by.” He puts his hands on his hips. “So. Think you’ve got it?”

Scott takes a last look around. “Yeah. If you hear screaming, come running.”

“Ha. Just breathe, like you do. The water will hold you. Really let your limbs go if you can, all right?”

“Right. Thanks.” They stand, shifting their weight, and it feels to Scott like some kind of send-off, where they might be standing in front of a train and Scott is the only one who will be getting on.

“Remember,” Jason says, uncharacteristically pensive. “You don’t have to stay in there the whole time. You can get out whenever you want to.”

Scott purses his lips and looks at the pod, then turns to Jason with a smile. The challenge rises up in him, as always where Jason is concerned, and now Scott can’t wait to show Jason how good at this he can be. He starts to unbutton his shirt. “See you on the other side.”

Jason smiles back and turns to the door. “I’ll be right out here.”

*

When Scott puts his earplugs in, the world gets farther away; there is still a mild ringing in his ears, but he can also hear his breath against the back of his throat and the click of his teeth as they clamp together. He can even hear the flannel scrubbing his skin in a new way. He is more inside his body than before.

He studies the pod as he steps out of the shower and pats his face dry. It feels strange, suddenly, that he’s going to climb inside and close himself in. He tries to think of the pod as something cool that the hero is born from, like in Avatar or The Matrix, rather than a coffin where a vampire hides from daylight, like Bram Stoker’s Dracula. He takes a few tentative steps toward it, but the open mouth of the pod grins at him in a way that makes him turn back to the changing area to make sure his phone is off and his jeans are hung neatly on the hook instead of getting inside.

The water will hold you.

His second approach is slow but steady. With one hand on the edge, he steps over and squats to sitting, lowering the lid part way as he goes. The water is slippery; he cups it in his hands, and his skin feels soft when it drips onto his thighs. He lies back carefully. When he stretches his legs, his bum rises off the pod floor, and his arms splay out for balance. He looks at his feet, toes bobbing at the surface, and this is real, it’s working.

The ceiling of the pod is smooth white, and he closes his eyes for a moment. He pushes one heel down so he can touch the bottom, then lets it go to see what will happen. It pops up like a cork.

The button for the light is just a little distance from his hand. Scott can both feel and hear the thump of his heartbeat quickening as he pushes it. When the light disappears, the bright white walls of the pod do, too, and he keeps his hands against them for a minute more. The water will hold you. His head tilts back, his legs drift apart, and he closes his eyes. He doesn’t have to swim, or tread, or paddle or think or try.

He is weightless.

*

Sometimes Scott feels as if he’s drifting on the open ocean; sometimes he feels he’s spinning and has to brace himself with his foot on the floor. He notices that his neck is tense, so he focuses there to let it go. When the light from the room that is visible through the open lid of the clamshell gets annoying, he sits up with a rush of water moving around him to shut the lid. This time when he lies back, he can’t tell whether his eyes are closed or open. He blinks, and the black that envelops him looks the same either way.

Scott’s mind does wander to everything—from the fact that he’ll have to pick up more tea later because he’s out, to that earworm of a song that came on shuffle on his way here, to how Jason looked at him before the float with excitement and concern. But Scott knows if something is going to happen here, he’s got to stay in the moment, so he tries to bring his attention back to his breathing. When he falls into a comfortable rhythm, he adds the hum Jason taught him. It helps him tune in to the other sounds his body makes: the corkscrewy hiss from his hungry belly, the whisper-creak of his shoulder joints, and the steady drum of his heart. He hears the low vibration of his vocal cords, but also the soft, windy whoosh of air across them, two distinctly different sounds at the same time.

His new favourite spot is the nowhere-land where he can drift, with no thought to the breath that’s gone or the next one that hasn’t happened yet. He can live in the middle, limbs floating, throat silent. He has a fleeting hope that dots of starlight will break through the darkness so he can find his fire and cross to the other side, though that only happens when he’s with Jason in the treatment room, with the smell of arnica surrounding them.

Scott thinks of the familiar balsam and orange now, in the pod, and he inhales deeply as if to smell it. He can almost feel Jason’s warm palm resting on his bad shoulder and easing it gently under the water. Scott turns his head toward that feeling, glad for the company, even if it’s just in his mind. The water closes over his scarred skin as Jason tells him about the difference between hearing and listening. Scott hums again as questions drift and bob in his mind. What am I listening for? What if I don’t recognise it when it comes? What if I don’t understand?

“Your body understands,” he hears Jason say softly. “Your mind doesn’t have to.”

That’s right. My body understands. That makes perfect sense and reminds Scott of something else he knows, something he recently learned that he can’t quite recall. Still, it’s a piece of the puzzle that shifts and settles into place.

The heavy warmth of a stone rests on his shoulder, holding it under the water and making his arm loose and relaxed. A not-altogether-rational worry tickles his thoughts, about whether the fire could appear for him even though he’s in a pool of water, but fades when he imagines Jason’s fingertips tracing his eyebrows, a movement that makes Scott’s jaw drop away from his cheeks and his mind blur.

It isn’t the night valley that appears in the darkness behind Scott’s eyes, but a person. It’s a man with short, curling dark hair, dressed in a green coat.

Scott gasps.

“Salaam alaikum.”

That voice—that lovely, rich voice Scott has hoped to hear for months—it’s right here, not coming in through his ears, but from inside him and all around him somehow, new, and yet so familiar. The sound makes tears sting his eyes.

“Wa alaikum as-salaam.” The shapes of the words are flat in his mouth from disuse, but they feel beautiful to Scott all the same. He listens, afraid to breathe.

“Ah, you remember, rafiq! But what’s wrong with your voice? You’re sick?”

Rafiq. Friend.

It’s dark in here, blacker than any black Scott has ever seen, but Omran’s low, accented voice paints a picture Scott sees brightly, of brown eyes behind glasses and a smart, tilted smile.

Scott scrambles for an answer as tears leak from his eyes. “Omran, I’m…” My friend, thank you, I miss you, I need you, I’m here, I’m alive. But. There is a shadowy layer underneath all of that, that Scott needs Omran to understand.

A long outbreath, an open door, and an inhale that shakes. “I’m a fucking mess.”

Scott’s throat clamps down on the next sentence before it can make its way out. He coughs around the words instead, the ugly sound bouncing off the pod walls. Scott clears his throat and tries again, but the words won’t come, the words that he has typed countless times into his phone late at night, screamed drunk in the shower, whispered to Omran in his dreams.

The pod gets quiet again, and Scott can’t stand the silence.

Are you still there? Please, don’t go.

“We told stories together, didn’t we?” Omran’s voice is a cloud that fills the pod, and Scott breathes it in; he resists the urge to reach a wet hand up to touch it with his fingers. More tears slip into the water.

“Yes, we did.”

“And now you have another story to tell, that’s all.”

How does he know that? Scott’s eyes look blindly out into the dark. He sniffs and clears his throat. “Yes.” The word sounds uneven and weak. “But I…I can’t tell it.”

“We’ll do it together, rafiq. Just like before. Let’s tell a story.”

Then they are sitting in a hotel pool on a sunny summer day, a large inflatable ball bouncing off the surface of the water in front of them.

“N-no,” Scott stutters, panicked. The sun here is too bright for his eyes, with no time to adjust. He squints and stands up, turning to see the blurry shape that is Jason sitting at the pool’s edge, unaware of the danger. They have to leave, right now.

“We can’t stay here.” Scott’s voice rises. “It’s not safe. There’s a—”

“Wave, I know.” Omran is too relaxed, pointing casually to the horizon. “It’ll be here soon.”

As if on cue, the sky fills with grey clouds and the wind picks up. The clean, shallow pool is gone; Scott looks down to see rough seawater rush around his legs. No, no, nonono.

“Omran, stand up. Please, please, we have to go, now, or else—” He turns to Jason and shouts. “Jason, we have to go!”

But there is only an empty shoreline. Fuck.

“No, not again. I can’t do this again, please.” Scott’s limbs are clumsy with desperation and adrenaline. When he tries to take Omran by the arm and pull him up, Omran holds his shaking hand still.

“We’re going to dive, rafiq.”

“No, no!” Scott’s plea is carried away by the wind that smells like salt and dead things. No, no, it’s coming, it’s too big, it’s too fast. The ringing in his ears is an urgent alarm. This is his moment, his chance to fix everything, and Omran won’t listen. “I’m not going to fucking let you die here!” Scott turns to the horizon where the wave is already swelling. “Fuck, now, now, come on, please, come with me!”

“Listen.” Omran’s hands are on Scott’s shoulders, gripping him square and tight like a child. “We’re going to go under. Do you hear me?”

Fucking madness fuck no NO not again I can’t I can’t wake up again and face it don’t you see it’s fucking coming! And it is coming, already three metres tall and climbing. Scott can’t catch his breath. Jason, I can’t breathe. Where is Jason?

“I can’t, I can’t.”

“You can,” Omran says. “That’s where you’ll find it. You’ll see.”

Scott hears the first scream, a woman’s, followed by those of men and children. The rising water is roaring closer, and the wind begins to whip around them. Ears ringing, heart pounding. It’s so goddamn loud. “No, this is my last chance, please, please!” Scott is full out crying, and his knees are weak from fear.

Omran’s hands hold his cheeks, forcing Scott to focus on him. “We’ve got to get underneath it. We’ll dive low.” He pauses, his brown eyes fierce. “Surrender to it. We’ll let it roll over us, yes?” Omran searches Scott’s face and studies his long scar for a moment, his thumbs wet with Scott’s tears. “There is something down there for you. We’re going to go get it. Are you ready?”

The magnitude of what is owed hangs between them. The resistance drains out of his shoulders. Omran is asking him for something.

Trust.

They look up at the wall of blue-green water as big as a building, with a frothy white peak just beginning to crest. Bodies are carried like driftwood inside. Fiery red anger rises up in Scott at this monstrous, evil thing, making his fists clench and his legs lock with newfound strength. The noise is deafening, and Scott roars back at it, cursing it out.

His anger burns away the fear, leaving only sharp focus. There is barely enough time to lock eyes with Omran, and they breathe and count together, three, two, one, and push; Scott inhales so deeply his lungs burn and he uses every bit of strength in his legs to dive forward and down, clean through the cold face of the wave.

*

It’s as if a door has been slammed, leaving the chaos on the other side.

Scott thought it would be rough under here, churning water throwing him around like a rag doll in a washing machine, and he was all set to fight it. But his furious strokes and desperate kicks slow and stop when he realises he doesn’t have to work so hard.

Actually, he doesn’t have to work at all. The burning in his lungs is gone. The ringing in his ears, the furious pounding of his heart, it’s all vanished. The wave has passed right overhead just like Omran said it would, leaving him drifting in peace where the only sound left is his breath.

Breathe, like you do. The water will hold you.

There are no bubbles, no heavy feeling in his lungs, nothing, he’s just breathing. It’s easy, and he feels light as he looks around this new world of beautiful crystal-blue. There is a sandy floor underneath him, and when he looks up, the surface glimmers far in the distance, lovely sunbeams dancing on it. The storm must be over.

“Omran?” Scott’s voice is strong.

“Nice dive.”

“Where are you?”

Scott is alone, but not; Omran is above, and below, inside and out.

“I’d give you a ten for difficulty. And a four for execution.”

Scott’s heart is buoyant. He made it, and Omran is not only still here, but he’s taking the piss. “Bullshit! That was at least an eight. I was terrified.” Scott looks around. The crystalline stillness of the place is captivating. He’s never seen a blue so beautiful.

“Now the real work begins, murshid.”

Murshid? Scott rolls the word over in his mind, and can’t place its meaning. He tucks it away for later. “What do I need to do?”

“Find your camera. Do you know where it is?”

Scott is surprised by his own answer. “Yes. I buried it.” It’s there, in the sand up ahead, where beams of sunlight point like a beacon in bright glowing lines.

He moves smoothly through the water, breathing comfortably, straight to the spotlit mound of sand. He thought it would be cold here, and dark. He thought he would suffocate under the terrifying weight of it all. But he’s not frightened; he kneels and begins to dig.

The sand is light and grainy, falling away easily when Scott pushes it aside. His hands make shovelling motions to scoop it away when it gets muddy underneath, and it isn’t until his forearms disappear into the hole that he starts to worry. What if it’s not here? What if his mind is playing tricks on him, and he’s buried it so deep he won’t be able to find it? A faraway memory sneaks in, of that dream of himself at the bottom of a hole with a shovel in his hands and tears in his eyes, and Jason calling to him from above. He looks up at the surface again, where the sun is shining. He can’t go up empty-handed.

“Omran?” Scott says out loud.

“Yes?”

Scott sighs and sits back on his heels. “Am I in the right place?”

“Always.” Omran’s voice is deep and clear, and Scott can feel the power of the word as well as hear it.

Scott stares at the empty hole. A part of him wants to call bullshit. But he can recall Omran’s commanding look, his unspoken demand for trust.

He gets back to it, still doubtful, but re-energised. It takes just a few more rakes of his hands before the tips of his fingers catch on something. His heart kicks inside, and his pulse rushes in his ears. That’s the deep brown colour he remembers.

He digs around it almost frantically, as if the thing is suffocating under the sand. He might be saying words, or cursing apologies as he sweeps the sand away and exposes the body of the bag. He pulls on the straps, the sand shifts around it, and with one more strong yank, it’s his.

The bag is bigger than he remembers but as familiar as an old shoe. There are nicks and scrapes on the body, and his ID tag hangs off one of the shoulder straps. He runs a shaking finger affectionately over the peeling British Airways sticker. He had forgotten about that, and had forgotten how the zipper on the largest pocket is missing its pull. He traces the edge of a tear in the fabric, suddenly protective of this part of himself that for months he couldn’t bear to face.

“I got it.” Scott’s arms are trembling, but he hugs the bag to his chest, feeling the hard pieces of the camera shift inside. Safe and sound in this peaceful place, with Omran watching over them.

“Now, murshid, what are you going to do with it?”

Scott looks up to the surface. Sunbeams filter through in shifting patterns that call him. Jason is up there. The pod is up there, too, and his flat, with its makeshift darkroom and framed tree. And there is Jason’s place. A soft, warm table. A white feather on a red cloth, a dish of coloured crystals. A plush leather holdall that has a deep, dark mouth and a gold zipper.

“I don’t…want to let you go.”

There is nothing for a time, only the grainy sound of sand shifting under Scott’s knees.

“Did you get what you came for?” Omran’s low voice is light.

Scott considers the backpack in his arms. He takes up a handful of sand and lets it fall through his fingers. “Yes, but…” He almost doesn’t ask. It’s wrong, isn’t it, asking Omran to give anything else after all Scott has taken from him?

“Can I sit here awhile with you?”

He knows, right then, in the moment Omran says “yes,” that the work he thought was finished has actually just begun.

*

The overcast afternoon light in the float centre’s waiting room is too bright for Scott at first, making him squint and look at the floor.

This moment feels like stepping out into a bright summer day after spending two hours lost in the dark cool of the cinema; his movements are cautious and slow, but his brain feels sharp and his senses supercharged. The world he is coming back to seems different than the one he left. The room that was shades of muted sepia now pops in vibrant colour. Chairs and pillows that were soft before are now plush, and the sounds of voices and music are crisp and vivid. Even the air smells sweeter.

He is vaguely aware of Drew behind the reception desk, speaking on the phone, and two other patrons seated on the small couch. A few more steps forward and he finds Jason, in the same chair he’d occupied before the float, only now he’s bent over at the waist, head hanging between his shoulders, his elbows resting on his parted knees. He is studying his palms as he rubs them together slowly, pursing his lips.

He’d had no doubt that Jason would be here, but still, the sight of him alone and quiet and curled over himself makes Scott’s chest heat with a tender pang of relief. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know if his voice will work. He walks toward him, clearing his throat.

“Hey,” Jason offers, rising. He is just like the rest of the room. Crisper, brighter than before. Scott notices the reddish tint to his stubble and the concern in his eyes.

“Hey.”

“You did it.”

“Mm hmm.” Scott’s voice is weak and whispery, nothing like the full voice he had in the pod, and it sounds strange to him now, unlike himself.

Jason tilts his head. “Ninety minutes wasn’t too long after all?”

“No, it was just right. But you, you sat here the whole time?”

“Yeah.” Jason glances quickly at the chair, then back. “Well, I might have paced a bit.” Jason rubs his palms together as if he’s nervous or trying to keep them occupied. Scott hopes Jason will do that thing he does during their post-appointment checks where he feels for tension under Scott’s jawline and takes his pulse. He takes a small step closer, to make it easy in case Jason wants to, and realises his own hands are hot and tingling.

“How do you feel?”

“Oh my God…incredible.” Scott feels like he’s had a good workout, a good cry, and a good nap all at the same time, and he knows his face shows it. He’s a bit self-conscious about it, and about his hair, still wet and stringy in its bun. But he is strong, too, sturdy in a way he hasn’t felt in ages. And a bit proud, if he’s honest, for making it back.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It was good. I kept bumping against the sides, and feeling for the bottom?”

Jason nods, handing him a water bottle that was stashed on the neighbouring chair.

“And it was so dark, I couldn’t even tell whether my eyes were open or closed.”

Jason nods again, bright-eyed. “Amazing, right? No signal in, nothing for your brain to work on. Right where you want to be.”

“And the water was warm, you know? It held me up.” There is hardly any sound coming out of Scott’s throat, the words just formed with breath, but they keep coming. He has to gesture with his hands to really get his point across, as if Jason might not understand. “I thought I was relaxed? And then something would let go, and then I thought I was relaxed, and then something else would let go, and…” This isn’t about impressing Jason anymore, it’s just the truth. “That was good. I feel really good.” Staring at Jason’s understanding smile, Scott realises it’s not the room that has changed. He has.

Jason starts to walk, breaking their gaze long enough to wave and say a quick thank you to Drew.

“Come back, all right?” Drew says, holding his hand over the phone.

“I will,” Scott says, nodding, and although it’s all but silent, Scott means it sincerely.

They break out into the world together and stand on the pavement, making no move toward the tube.

“You know, it didn’t feel like sensory deprivation though? I mean, I could still feel things. And hear?” And smell, and touch.

“Like?”

Scott thinks back. “My body is really loud?” He breathes a silent chuckle, and Jason laughs too. “I liked the feel of the water on my skin. And I thought I smelled arnica.” He doesn’t mention how he could hear Omran’s voice. Or how he could feel his camera bag safe in his arms again, feel the straps tight around his shoulders when he put it on to take it with him. Those things he wants to keep for himself. For now.

He changes the subject. “And remember the dream I told you about?”

“The big wave?”

“Right. I got a do-over.”

Jason looks pleasantly surprised. “All right then. Did it turn out differently the second time around?”

Scott shakes his head like, even as he’s telling it, he can’t quite believe it himself. “Yeah, we uh… I figured out what I have to do. At our next appointment.” He meets Jason’s eyes, which look at him openly and without judgment. Their blue reminds Scott of someplace safe. “I have something to put in your bag.”

The moment feels transparent somehow, a hurdle they’ve been waiting for that they’ve finally cleared, and Jason’s eyes crinkle as he smiles. It seems utterly fitting that Scott’s stomach should pick this moment to growl loudly, making them both laugh.

“Oh, you must be starving. It’s almost four,” Jason says.

Scott still has his unopened water bottle in one hand, but that won’t do at all; it’s got to be a burger or a big plate of curry, and it’s got to be fast. His mind skips ahead, landing on a picture of himself at an actual table and eating with Jason. It would be brilliant. There is so much more Scott wants to tell him, though truthfully, Scott wouldn’t mind if they just ate and didn’t talk at all. He can feel the timer ticking on their field trip, and he isn’t quite ready for it to end.

“Yeah, can we get a bite? Or seven courses? I’m about to eat this lovely shrub.”

Jason laughs, tosses his head toward the west end of the street, and starts to point. “Yeah, there’s a…nice…” But then his face falls abruptly. His mouth is still open when he turns back to him with a look Scott doesn’t recognise.

Evidently the end is closer than Scott thought. “You probably have to go back to work, don’t you?”

“No, it’s just that…” Jason’s mouth twists, and his hands land on his hips.

“Oh, wait, that’s right, patients and doctors can’t, like, socialise, or whatever?”

“Right.” Jason nods, looking at his shoes for a moment. His face is open and direct when he faces Scott again. “There’s a line. If I crossed it, it would be wrong.”

Scott’s cheeks burn along with his throat. “No, I totally get that.”

“There’s a soup and wrap place I always go to after. They have good coffee too. Just down a block, and turn right on Warwick. You can’t miss it.”

“Oh. All right, then.” Scott starts to back away, jerking a thumb in that direction.

“I’ll see you on Thursd—”

“Thanks for coming wi—”

They both talk at the same time, and a new, uneasy energy rattles between them. Scott feels like they’ve gone off course, and he is the one who led them there. But Jason holds his hand out as usual, ready for their customary goodbye handshake.

Scott can’t push down the urge for Jason to touch him any longer. He does take Jason’s hand, locking their eyes for a moment, before he pulls Jason into his chest and wraps his other arm around his back. They hug, shuffling a bit, with Scott’s chin tucked into the hollow of Jason’s neck. Jason feels stiff in his arms, but Scott doesn’t mind because it’s real, Jason’s hair tickling his nose and his chest warm and solid pressing against him. He squeezes a little tighter before he begins to pull away, but Jason holds on.

“So it was good, then?”

“Yeah.” Scott releases his breath with a sigh. He remembers the wave, the fear, the crystal-blue world below, the good feeling of his camera releasing from its grave in the sand. He remembers how, when he was ready to come back, he had pushed off the ground and swum up through the water that was not water toward the light. Omran had been all around him and inside too. I heard him, Jason. And he heard me. “Thank you.”

Jason’s fingers press between his shoulder blades, then there is a pat-pat, the signal that they should part. Pulling away feels gentle, and their eyes don’t skip past each other but, instead, settle together carefully.

“Thursday,” Jason says plainly.

Maybe this is what dawn breaking in the night valley means. He’s turning the corner now that he’s got his camera again; he can almost feel its phantom straps over both shoulders, the way he used to wear it in the field. The tightness feels good, pulling him up so he stands up tall. He feels fitted out, prepared, ready for what’s coming next.

The end of one thing and the beginning of something else.

“Thursday,” Scott repeats.

*

That night, when Scott falls into bed, sleep comes easily. He dreams of a country road cutting a swath through pretty green fields, and Scott knows before he looks that Jason is in the passenger seat with his map, navigating them to Land’s End.

“How much longer, do you think?” Scott asks.

Jason traces the map with his finger. “We’re getting close. It’ll be soon.”

The sun is still high in the sky, warm on Scott’s arm that rests in the open window. When they get there, to the coast, he’ll see the rocky beach for the first time, and maybe they’ll swim. It’s a perfect day.

Jason turns the old Volkswagen’s radio on, and twists the tuner knob to find a station. Static channels slip by, with a piece of a song or a newsy voice.

“Where is it?” Jason mumbles.

“What are you looking for?” They’re coasting again, Scott notices, with no pedals on the floor and his hand off the wheel.

“You.”

That’s funny, and Scott chuckles. “I’m right here.”

“No, your voice, silly.” Jason closes his eyes and tilts his head a little, listening closely as he continues to turn the knob. “It’s here somewhere. I’ll find it.”

Right, of course. Jason will find it. Scott smiles to himself, feeling lucky. Lucky to have a car that drives itself. Lucky that he remembered to bring his camera and a towel. Lucky to be on this trip with Jason, who time after time sits right here, no matter how long the ride, and helps Scott get everything back that he lost.

“Hey, did you ever figure out what that word means?” Jason asks, his eyes still closed.

“What word?”

“That word Omran said, in the float. How do you say it, myr-sheed?”

Scott likes hearing Jason’s voice say it, with deep vowels and a soft curl on the R. Murshid. He smiles. “I did. It means ‘teacher.’”