Below by Meg McKinlay Page B

couldn’t get a breath. Which side was I turning? Which way?
    I turned my head, flailing, and sucked in a deep gulp, but it was water I got instead of sky, instead of air.
    I was going under, felt myself start to go, my leg dragging me down, and I waited, reaching for something, anything, with my good leg and my foot and the ends of my toes.
    But there was nothing. It was too deep, and my head was going under, the water closing, knitting itself back together above me. And I was an idiot, because for a second I thought I saw someone running, waving, coming across the water, mouth open, shouting.
    But there was no one, and I knew that. People don’t run, don’t wave, don’t make their way to you across the water.
    I was under, and my mouth was open, taking in great gulps of lake like it was oxygen, and I thought,
Oh, a pool is good; it’s safe and convenient; it has lifeguards
. And then,
Work, leg, work,
but it wouldn’t, and if Mr. Henshall had been there, it would have listened, because everyone listens to him, even when he doesn’t make any kind of sense.
    And it’s crazy the things you see, you think, when you’re going under, because there was someone and Mr. Henshall and
Work, leg, work,
but it wouldn’t. And as the water folded me down into itself, there were flashes of color,
of blue or maybe green or maybe a kind of greeny-blue, and what do you call that in-between color, anyway? And a mosaic with jagged edges — should have trimmed them, careless
. And I wondered if this is what you see, if this is what you think when you’re sinking, when you’re going under all the way down into the silty dark, and how I wish, I wish I had a sword that gave me dominion over the lands.
    Or even just a stick.
    A stick.
    Oh, a stick, up there in the light.
    The good light.
    Following me down.
    My fingers, finding it.
    That voice yelling, that mouth open, rushing toward me.
    A platform up above me, something to grab on to, something to clamber onto, something to be safe.
    So I tried, dragging my traitor leg behind me like a broken wing, and he leaned out toward me, held the stick, said,
holdonjustholdonthat’sall;
said,
Stay back, Cassie. I’m serious. Don’t make me break your nose.

That was from Mr. Henshall as well.
    Don’t get too close,
he always said.
Don’t let a drowning person drag you down with them
.
    It was most important
to secure your own safety at all times.
It was
reach to rescue
and
defensive posture
and
break their nose if you have to (don’t quote me on this)
.
    I held on to the stick, on to the branch, and I didn’t grab on to the platform, which was a raft, of sorts. I let myself be dragged through the water, and then we were in the shallows, and he was hauling me in, all the way to the good solid ground — the voice, the mouth, the someone.
    Liam.
    I sat in the mud while he pulled the raft up onto the bank.
    What are you doing here?
I wanted to ask, and
How did you get here?
and
Where did you get that raft thing?
But I couldn’t say anything just yet, could only focus on getting air in and out, in and out.
    “Are you okay?” Liam sat down near me at the water’s edge.
    I nodded. I didn’t feel okay — not yet — but I knew I would soon. Eventually. Because even though my leg was still wood and there was lake in my throat, I was out now and there wasn’t any farther to sink.
    “Thanks,” I said finally. “My leg — it . . .” I made claws of my hands, gritting my teeth.
    “Cramp. I had that in the pool once. The wall was right there, and I thought I wasn’t going to make it back. Pretty scary.”
    “Yeah.” I ran one hand cautiously down my leg, probing for the pain.
    Cramp? Was that it? Nothing to do with my lungs or digging in, but just a normal cramp, like anyone could get.
    Any idiot who tried to swim out into the middle of the lake after a stick, that is.
    “You probably just went too far,” Liam said. “What were you doing out there?” He peered out across the lake.