I FALL ASLEEP IN THE POOL, for a short while. Weirdly, it's the terrible sound of silence that wakes me up. Pushing open damp eyelids, I blink out the water drops and look around. The caldarium is completely empty. And I get this lonely feeling deep in my belly, like millstones over quicksand. The quietness is a bit eerie—and I suppose that's why my body thought something wrong and pushed my mind to interfere. I've always been attuned to my surroundings. My dad had said many times I could survive a Zombie Apocalypse. It was part reason I was always Cabin captain at summer camp.
Stretching numb limbs in the water, I let out a long yawn, recalling the smell of wet pines and steaming kettles.
Life in a way—up until my death—has prepared me for this moment.
