Girl Underwater by Claire Kells Page B

makeshift door swings shut.
    â€œI guess they approve,” Colin says.
    â€œI guess they do.”
    The moment lingers a little too long, at which point we disperse in a hurry. Colin goes over to check on the pregnant lady, while I join the boys inside.
    â€œLook what I found!” Tim holds up what looks like an old Walkman. He’s a cute kid: smart, funny, with the hint of a lisp he’s constantly trying to correct by repeating certain words. His parents probably put him in speech lessons at the age of two. His parents who are gone now.
    He manipulates the object in his small hands, the pieces of cracked plastic glistening in the morning sun.
    â€œIt’s a golf GPS!” he says. “My dad has one.” He gives it a hard shake. “Batteries are dead.”
    â€œCan I see it?” I ask.
    He hands it over, and I know right away this pocket-size piece of technology has nothing to do with golf.
    â€œSee?” Tim says. “It’s broken.”
    â€œTim, I don’t think this is a golf GPS.”
    He frowns. “Then what is it?”
    â€œI think it’s, uh, a transceiver.” I leave out the part about
avalanche
transceiver. Best not to plant the idea of a deadly wave of snow in Tim’s mind.
    â€œOh,” he says, but I can see he’s disappointed. The image of him clutching his father’s shattered iPad sears through me.
    â€œA transceiver is a fancy name for a radio.”
    â€œOh!” His eyes brighten again. “Well, I’m going to fix it.”
    He digs through the next suitcase with unbridled enthusiasm.
How many people travel with batteries?
And even if he does find some AAAs, the chances of their being dry and functional are close to zero. An avalanche transceiver is the kind of false hope we don’t need; its only use is keeping Tim happy.
Forget about it. You won’t need it anyway.
    Meanwhile, Liam and Aayu have discovered two My Little Ponies from the kitty-themed suitcase. “It’s a horse,” Liam announces.
    â€œHorse,” Aayu repeats. It sounds like
huss.
    The boys look nothing alike. Liam is freckly and blond, already flush with a mountain sunburn. Aayu is an ethnic mystery: lush mahogany skin, amber eyes, and curly raven hair. He held up three fingers when I asked him how old he was, but he seemed a little uncertain. He’s small for his age, with a fragility that worries me.
    I’m watching them play when Colin opens the door. “Can you come outside a minute?”
    I tell the boys to stay put, but they’re too invested in their new toys to acknowledge me. Three small children under control. I should savor this.
    The makeshift door squeaks shut. Colin leads me toward the tree line, such that the fort is still within view but obscured by the low-hanging branches of nearby pines. His pace is strangely rushed.
    Then I see her: the pregnant woman propped against a tree with her legs splayed out in the dirt. Her sweatpants are soaked from the waist down.
    Colin stares at his mud-caked golf shoes as he says, “I think she’s in labor.”
    Labor.
The word lands in the air with a hollow thud.
    â€œAre you sure? Has she come around at all?”
    â€œNo.” He skims his head with his hand. “I was moving her into the sun, and she . . . I dunno. I think her water broke.”
    I kneel down next to her, this sad, tragic woman without a name. As her body contracts, her face registers no response.
    â€œCan you get the penlight?”
    â€œPenlight.” He pats his pockets, comes up empty. “Yeah, sure. Hold on.”
    He returns a moment later with the penlight, its beam already waning. I shine it in both her eyes, searching for a response—an
equal
response. Her left pupil is fixed and dilated, which means the right doesn’t matter. She won’t survive this kind of injury.
    I shake my head. Colin, in his quiet, stoic way, accepts it.
    â€œHow long does she