Blue Field(41)

YOU ARE TO

FUCKING SLOW

TO EXIT

She clapped a hand to her own regulator. The ceiling lurched closer. The thought of water stuffed her nose and she felt as if the numbers on her gages might twirl and caper. Heat surged through her torso. He plucked the board from her and swiftly shifted his new-bulk around and, rearing his fins at her, vanished with a stroke.

She mounted the current and set out. On and on, on her own she soared above the permanent line as if it were string to her kite. Once, she skidded past a corkscrew corner and somersaulted before righting herself and then with care threaded her way as if through the eye of a needle. Twice at least she told herself that more than an hour in equalled half that to auger out. She told herself she could do it. Because! her head sang. Because the swift outflow, and because time passed—it must—it seemed to take no time to recover her staged tanks and pass the tees. No markers, as before. No Rand. Still in? Or out? Near the cave entrance where the permanent line ended or began—depending—she called it. Because, because. She unfastened his reel and rewound its thread into open water. On her knees on the river bottom, shuddered by current, for a moment she bowed her head. Then she clipped his reel to her harness and hustled forward, crossing toward yet another shore, heart chunking behind like discarded bait. She wondered who she’d be when she got there.





Acknowledgements


Thanks to Jackie Kaiser, and to Emily Donaldson and the rest of Biblioasis. A special, endless thanks to John Metcalf. Thanks also to Xu Xi. Thanks to the editors of the following journals, who first published excerpts, in different forms: Sententia, Joyland: A Hub for Fiction, Blackbird.

As always, thanks to my family and friends for their support. And to David Smooke: for everything.