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Liam looked up at me. “Yeah,” he said. “There is.”

We didn’t make plans for the next day or the day after that.

We didn’t make any plans at all. We just turned up.

Sometimes I got there first, and sometimes Liam did. When I saw his bike parked alongside the break in the fence, I caught myself smiling.

I wondered if he did the same.

When we went out to the tree, we took turns on the raft — me swimming one way and Liam the other. He didn’t need to stay alongside me anymore, though. I was getting stronger. I was coughing and spluttering less.

And I was getting faster. Even without flags and black lines, I could tell. The platform seemed closer, and not only because the shoreline was continuing to recede.

I still couldn’t come close to Liam. When we swam next to each other, he pulled away from me immediately.

When I asked how he made it seem so easy, he shrugged. “It’s all underwater.”

That’s why good swimmers look so relaxed, he said. You can’t believe they’re going that fast because it’s all invisible. Everything that matters happens out of sight, under the surface. I nodded, thinking of Amber and her clean, butter-slice stroke.

Christmas came and went, and there were days when I couldn’t get up there. There were days when Mom said we should spend time as a family, and we went to the pool, where Mom got mad because I wouldn’t wear the rainbow-striped bikini she had bought me for Christmas. Or around to the Point, where I swam out past the Jet Skis till Mom started yelling and waving her arms, where I stared out across the surface, wondering if Liam was over there on the other side, hauling himself down.

Liam and I cleared off the road, at least as much as we could. As you went farther up the bank, it veered off into the bush, where undergrowth and trees had grown up and over it.

We walked down the road toward the lake, into the water, but we kept bobbing up to the surface. I told Liam about my idea, of putting stones in my pockets, and he laughed.

We tried swimming down the road, following it as far as we could underwater. It was tricky, though. It was hard to stay down without anything to hang on to and difficult to stay with the line of the road when it was dark down there and everything was covered with mud.

Slowly, but noticeably now that we were paying attention, the water level continued to drop. We had to walk farther to get to the water. We made it farther down the road. We wondered how close we were — to the town, to the houses, to the places where our families used to live.

Out at the platform, we pulled ourselves down the pegs. The water got lower and lower. We dived farther and farther, counting ourselves down.

When Liam went under, I timed him so I’d know when to panic. After a while, I stopped worrying. The bubbles always came back up. He was always there eventually, sticking his head through the opening, flicking his wet hair out of his eyes.

The water had receded below the level of the platform now, and the raft was tethered to a branch underneath us. We had to climb up to the platform using the pegs, the way people used to. It was weird to think that Elijah had been here, had done this before me, years and years ago.

One afternoon we sketched out a map in the mud halfway up the bank. Together we laid out the whole town, etching out its squares and sloping curves with pointed sticks.

Maybe it didn’t make sense to draw a map in the mud when we could have just used paper, but it seemed right somehow. When it rained, it would be gone, washed away, but for now the sun baked it hard into the ground, solidifying the lines we had scratched out.

That was the day we found it.

I had pushed myself down from the edge of the raft, enjoying the feeling of spearing through the water, then kicking up toward the dark square that hung above me, framed against the brightness of the day. The sun was overhead, and it was light in the water. Even several feet down, I could see my hands in front of my face, watch my feet below me disappearing into the deep.

It was a fish, I thought at first when my toe brushed the edge of something. There was lake weed in closer to the shore, but you wouldn’t get that this deep. But it hadn’t felt like a fish. It hadn’t felt like something that was passing, something I could nudge gently with my foot, sending it on its way through the water.

It had felt solid. It had felt . . .
there
.

When I surfaced, Liam was leaning down over the side of the raft. “What?” he asked.

“There’s something down there.”

“In the water? Like what?”

“Good question.”

“Hang on. Do you think . . . ?”

“Only one way to find out.”

We dived down.

We dived down together and freaked out bumping into each other in the shifting light. We surfaced together and freaked out when we realized the raft had drifted while we were under. Liam swam to get it while I stayed behind, treading water. After that we took turns, one of us staying with the raft, one of us slicing down into the lake.

I went feet first, tin-soldiering myself off the edge of the raft, pointing my toes down and down, straining for the tiny tip of whatever it was, if it had even been anything at all.

Liam went headfirst, hurling himself off the side. “It’s safe,” he said. “There’s nothing shallow here. And we can use our arms better that way, to pull ourselves down.”

I knew he was right, but I couldn’t make myself do it. There was something about having my face lead the way into the dark that gave me the creeps.

“I’m going pretty deep,” I said.

“I’m going deeper,” Liam replied.

“I don’t know,” I said when he surfaced for what must have been the twentieth time. “Maybe it was nothing. Maybe . . .”

Then I stopped. Because Liam was grinning. Because there was something in his hand, clenched tightly between his fingers.

“You wouldn’t have gotten that off with your toes,” he said.

“What is it?”

“Wood.”

“Oh.” Something like disappointment washed over me. Wood. That was all. A submerged tree, maybe.

Liam shook his head. “Here.”

Something else started growing in me then, something that wasn’t disappointment but more like . . . anticipation, expectation. Because it wasn’t that kind of wood. Not some bit of a stick or sheet of bark Liam had peeled off a tree, but part of a plank of wood, with milled edges and nail holes and the faint stain of rust.

Liam pulled himself up onto the raft. “There’s more of it. A lot. Like a wall or something.”

I laid the plank down on the raft and stared at it. How deep had it been? How old was it? And what was it from? What had it been part of, once upon a long time ago? The bakery, maybe? Or Tucker’s? The old artists’ studio! That was a wooden building.

Liam shook his head. “Not out here.”

I looked around us. He was right. We were nowhere near the town. We were on the other side, out in the hills. That meant the ground was closer to the surface of the water and more likely to be accidentally kickable by a foot, but also that there was nothing but trees and farms. Not even any houses, because they were all clustered down near the road so they could connect to the water and the power and all of that.

Liam went down again. He dived over and over, pulling up piece after piece of old, rotting wood and laying them out on the raft.

I stared at them, as if they were part of a puzzle we could fit together, as if they would tell me something if I just listened hard enough.

What I heard was Liam, bursting through the surface, spurting water through his teeth like a whale through its blowhole.

And then something else.

Someone yelling. A voice, calling out. “Hey!”

There was someone — a man — picking his way along the water’s edge, one hand shading the sun from his face as he stared out across the lake.

Toward the raft.

Toward us.

I strained forward into the sunlight. For a second I felt hopeful. Maybe it was Elijah. He knew the way. And he suspected something the other week; I could see it in his face.

“Hey!” the voice repeated. “You kids!”

And it was a familiar voice now. It was a voice I’d heard at Sports Days and ceremonies and most recently in my own classroom.

It was Finkle.

“What are you kids doing here?”

As we approached the shore, Finkle came down to the water’s edge.

The mayor’s face was dark. “There’s no swimming here!” he yelled. “There’s no . . . Oh, it’s you.” His voice softened suddenly.

At first, I thought he meant me. Dad was doing his head, after all. He had come to my house.

But it was Liam he was talking to. And he didn’t sound angry anymore. He sounded friendly, concerned.

“You all right there?” he asked as Liam waded through the shallows, hauling the raft behind him. “Need a hand?”

I stared at Finkle. What was he going to do — roll up his trousers and walk into the mud?

Liam shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“You shouldn’t be here. There’s no swimming on this side.”

Liam nodded. “Sorry.”

Finkle frowned. “How did you get in here?”

I shot Liam a look, hoping he would keep quiet. Finkle must have driven up the old road and come in the gate. If anyone had a key, it would be him. If anyone was authorized, it would be him.

If anyone was trespassing, it would be us.

But Finkle wouldn’t have seen the break in the fence. That was farther along. And our bikes were in the bushes on this side. Not hidden, exactly, but not obvious, either, unless you walked right by there, which you would never do if you were an authorized person coming through an officially approved gate.

I thought fast. I remembered how Elijah and I had picked our way along the shoreline all those years ago.

“We came around from the Point.”

Finkle nodded at the raft. “On that? That’s quite a distance.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have,” he said. “It’s dangerous here. There are lots of snags on this side — submerged trees, sandbanks, that kind of thing.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Liam raise his eyebrows slightly. It made no sense, what Finkle had said, not if you knew anything about Old Lower Grange. If anything, there was more bush over on the other side, near the Point. This side was slightly clearer, being closer to the town itself. It was true that there were some hills, but there were hills everywhere, and they weren’t the same thing as sandbanks at the beach that would rise up suddenly and break your unsuspecting neck.

Finkle shaded his face as he looked out across the water. “What is that, anyway?” He pointed toward the tree.

“I think it’s the fire tree.” I followed his gaze. “But it’s not dangerous or anything. It’s just —”

“The fire tree?” Finkle took a few steps closer to the edge, craning forward. “Above the water?”

“Yeah,” Liam replied, “you can see the pegs and everything.”

“But that’s . . .” Finkle blinked. He lowered his hand from his face and peered down at the hardened mud at our feet. “I had no idea it was this low.” Something came across his face. “This isn’t good at all.”

For a moment he was lost in thought, then he looked up quickly, as if he’d suddenly remembered we were there. “Well, what are you two going to do? You can’t stay here. I can give you a lift back to town if you want. Unless someone’s waiting for you at the Point?”

Liam turned his head at the same time I did, in the direction of the hole in the fence. Then we both stopped. The bikes could wait.

“Mom was coming back later,” I said. “But I can tell her not to bother.”

“All right, then. Come on.”

We followed Finkle back through the trees, through the gate to where he’d parked his silver truck. Behind us, Finkle ran the chain back through the wire and snapped the lock shut, then rattled it firmly to make sure it was secure.

As we bumped our way along the dirt road back to town, he kept up a steady stream of talk. About how low the water was: he knew it had been dry, he said, but he hadn’t expected it to be so bad.

“I like to come up every now and then,” he said. “Keep an eye on things. It’s all on the computer, of course.” He waved a hand in the direction of the river, up toward the power station. “I could leave it up to the engineers. But there are some things you can only see with your own eyes — trees sticking out of the water, kids putting themselves at risk.” He gave us a meaningful look in the rearview mirror. “I like to do a job myself. In the end, I’m the mayor. It’s my name out there, my face. Well, my whole head, really.” He smiled broadly at me. “How’s your father doing with that?”