He’s shouting something, but I can’t make it out over the roar of the river.
I take hold of him in the classic Red Cross lifesaving position and head for shore. He looks okay, except for a bloody gash behind his ear. Malik is moving toward me, carried by the current.
I never thought I’d be grateful for anything about growing up in that town. It’s a struggle with the river boiling all around me, and I’m grateful for the water polo training I got back in Serenity. I hit the water with a splash, and begin to swim upstream. The current is so fast that I could be a quarter-mile downriver before I make up my mind. The next, the limb catches Malik on the side of the head, pitching him off our makeshift raft into the water. I don’t even see it until it’s too late to shout a warning.
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