Girl Underwater by Claire Kells

my muscles are feeling it. Everything starts to cramp up.
    Keep going.
    The fastest and most efficient way from here to there is freestyle, so I try to find my rhythm, keeping my torso high in the water. Hips roll from side to side; arms follow. Ankles flexible, legs beating to a steady, two-beat kick Coach told me went out of style in the seventies. Out here, it doesn’t matter. I do what feels natural because muscle memory is all my mind can process right now.
    I breathe side to side, then straight ahead, keeping my chin just above water to see where I’m going. In this case, I’m headed for a tangle of suitcases tied together with a bungee strap. The orange duffel bag is much farther off—a mile from shore, at least.
Too
far. So I settle for the suitcases and swim back to shore, kicking until my legs give out.
    Colin watches me until I’m ten yards from shore, his face fraught with concern. “I’m okay,” I say, reinforcing this with an overly enthusiastic wave.
    As he turns back toward the trees, I stumble out of the water. With frozen fingers, I put my bloodied clothes back on. Hopefully these suitcases will yield a change of clothes, or at least something dry and warm.
    â€œOkay, I’m decent,” I say.
    He turns around. One of the boys runs into my arms, which startles me a little.
    â€œFourteen minutes,” Colin says with an exaggerated sigh. I know he’s teasing me, but worry swims in his eyes.
    â€œI’m fine,” I say.
    â€œOkay,” he says, unconvinced. “Let’s see what we’ve got.” My recovery mission yielded three carry-on-size suitcases and a golf bag. One of the suitcases has standard female professional fare—push-up bras, blouses, dresses, and pantsuits. No coats. And, of course, she had to be a size zero. None of it does Colin any good, but the dresses and pantsuits could work for the boys, if we’re creative. I opt for one of her larger, baggier sweaters. The thongs are hastily discarded before the boys can see them or Colin can comment on them.
    Another suitcase must have belonged to an Oakland Raiders fan; every T-shirt, sweatshirt, and pair of sweatpants bears its logo. All medium size, which is bad news for Colin, but it will have to do. Overall, it’s still a good find.
    The golf bag appears to have lost its clubs somewhere along the way, but an assortment of useless crap fills the compartments—golf balls, tees, two golf gloves, and a pair of golf shoes.
Huge
golf shoes. They might even fit Colin.
    He smirks as I dangle them in front of him. “You a golfer?” I ask him.
    â€œI guess I am now.”
    The smallest suitcase was clearly designed for a child, with a kitten-themed canvas and pink wheels. I swallow a lump in my throat. The clothes are even more indicative of its young owner: pink stretchy pants, purple flip-flops, an unopened package of headbands. The shirts are all tiny, but they’ll work for the boys. “I hope you like pink,” I tell them. The oldest one, who told me his name is Tim, reaches for a sweatshirt with a horse on the front.
    â€œI like horses,” he explains.
    â€œI like pink!” screams the boy in baseball gear. His name is Liam, and he’s four years old. He tells us this at least once an hour.
    The smallest boy isn’t quite so selective. I think his name is Aayu, but his voice is so quiet, it’s hard to say for sure. He struggles to meet my gaze, even when I hand him the only toy in sight. The tiny smile on his face tells me he likes it.
    â€œPretty,” he says, and hands it back to me.
    Colin sighs as he sorts everything into little piles. “There isn’t much here for you,” he says to me.
    â€œOr you.”
    â€œI’ll be fine,” he says. “I’m bigger.”
    â€œThat’s terrible logic.”
    He smiles, but it feels strained. I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing:
Why are we