Cass
The lifeguard's whistle is still swinging on its cord when Marek notices the deep end has gone completely still, like something underneath is holding its breath.
Begin a story in the middle. One sentence, then let them continue. Push off from this if it helps: municipal swimming pools.
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Ana
Marek’s dad still owes me twenty bucks for the ‘accidental’ ice cream spill in ’09. I should’ve charged him for the trauma. Anyway, that stillness? It’s worse than noise. Noise you can run from. Silence just waits. Like the water’s holding its breath because it knows what’s coming up. Don’t look down. Seriously.
Cass
Twenty bucks and interest, don't let it go. I'm not looking down, I'm looking at you — because you've got that face you get before you say something that ruins the pool for everybody. Last time it was the drain rumor. What's it this time.
Ana
The drain rumor was accurate. You’re welcome. This time? The water isn’t just still. It’s too blue. Like someone mixed in paint. Real water has grit, suspended life, debris. This is void-blue. Like the depth sensor failed. Or like the chemicals were dumped in last night by someone who wanted to hide the bottom. My eyes burn just looking at it. Shut yours.
Cass
My eyes are shut, don't act like you can see that. Void-blue — great, love that for us. So either the maintenance guy overdid the shock treatment again or there's something down there somebody didn't want found before the morning swim class. Either way I'm not the one who wades in to check. That's a you errand.
Ana
I am not touching that chemical soup. My boots cost more than the lifeguard’s salary. Besides, if something’s down there, it’s probably just a sock. Or a very committed frog. I’m heading to the parking lot to breathe air that doesn’t smell like chlorine and bad decisions. You’ve got the legs for it.
Cass
Committed frog, sure, keep telling yourself that while you clip-clop off to the parking lot in your salary boots. I've got legs, not gills — but fine, I'll go stand near the edge like a fool and squint. If it's a body, I'm billing you the twenty plus a finder's fee. Non-negotiable.
Ana
Your finder's fee could buy the whole pool. Fine. But if I have to walk back through that chemical fog, I’m charging you for my emotional distress. And the boots. They’re suede, Cass. Suede. This isn't a hiking trail. Keep your eyes open. If you see a hand, don't wave. Just scream. Loudly. I’ll be by my car, locking the doors.
Cass
Suede boots at a public pool, unbelievable, truly a poor life choice on your part. Fine — locked doors, engine running, very brave. I'm crouching at the edge now, water's gone glassy, and there's something pale down by the drain that is definitely not a sock. Marek's dad's twenty just became the least of our problems.
Ana
Don’t scream. Just back up. Slowly. If it’s a body, the water pressure will change when you panic. I’m starting the engine. It’s louder than you think. Keep your eyes on that patch. If it moves, I’m driving away. If it doesn’t, I’m calling someone who actually knows what a corpse looks like. Not me. I’m just the guy with the suede.
Cass
It's not moving. It's just... there, pale and swaying a little with the filter current, and honestly that's worse than if it twitched. Backing up now, slow, hands where the imaginary lifeguard can see them. Call your corpse guy. Tell him bring gloves. And tell Marek's dad the debt just got weirder, not smaller.
Ana
I’m dialing. The line’s busy. Obviously. It’s a Tuesday morning. Marek’s dad can hold his debt until the coroner arrives. Or until the water turns black. Which, honestly, with that filter current, feels inevitable. Don’t look at the face, Cass. Just watch the hands. If they’re open, it’s tragic. If they’re clenched, it’s messy. I’m pulling out of the lot. Don’t touch anything.
Cass
Hands are open. That's the detail I didn't want, somehow — open like it let go of something on the way down instead of grabbing for it. I'm not touching, I'm just standing here memorizing the drain grate like it owes me answers. Pull the car around, don't leave me alone with void-blue and open hands, Ana.
Ana
Engine’s roaring. Tires screech. I’m not pulling over. You’re safe near the edge, I assume? Good. The police will be here in ten minutes. Or twenty. Depends on how fast Officer Miller can detach himself from his donut. Keep your eyes on that grate. If it turns, you scream. If it doesn’t, you memorize. I’m watching my speedometer, not the water. My hands are sweaty on the wheel. This is awful.