In the motel’s retro, kidney-shaped, outdoor pool, thirty minutes till close, no lifeguard on duty, Harry Snow swims his first submerged lap, his long-lost special ability.
A moment ago his wife, Anne, still in her road clothes, waved to their kids splashing at the far end, her smile trembling, and said, “This time, believe it, this time I am leaving.” Clutching her phone, she sat back in a white metal chair, one in a row on the cooling red brick. In the hours since Harry had told her about the pictures, about her best friend, her anger had settled in. She watched a tattooed couple drown cigarettes in plastic cups and make their way upstairs, wet footprints evaporating, the sky blushing, crickets grinding. He went under.
