"Oh my God. Is she alright?"

"Help me."

Hands grip me, pull me out of the water, and set me down on my back. A bright light shines through my eyelids, and instinctively, I roll onto my side and cough up water. Lots of it. It's more like vomiting. I blink several times, trying to adjust to my surroundings and the reality of air. It hurts to breathe, and yet it brings such relief.

"I've been trying to call," a guy says. "Can't seem to keep a signal."

My pulse hammers through my veins, and yet I try to get up. Too early. Blackness encroaches my vision.

"It's okay," my hero says. "She wasn't under that long."

"I told you to switch networks," a girl says.

"It's these damned bluffs. They block the signal."

The blond guy—my hero—shakes his head. "She wasn't under that long," he says again.

The darker haired man scoffs. "You and your damned hero-complex, Braydon. You know you can't save—"

"Hey, he just saved her life," the red-headed girl says. "Give him a break, Jesse."

"Whatever." And Jesse storms off.

Waves of dizziness crash over me, but I need to leave. I need to get away from this Goddamn lake. And these people. This crowd.

"Nessa, why don't you grab some towels?"

"Sure," the girl says.

I try to sit up. He won't let me. "You should keep your head low. Elevate your legs."

"Don't touch me!"

"Okay. Okay."

And for a while, I keep my legs intentionally down. Ugh! He's probably right. So I raise my knees and grumble internally.

"Can I get your name?" Braydon asks. I don't respond. "Who are you here with? I'm sure they've got to be wondering where you are."

To that, I chuckle a little, but it quickly turns to coughing.

"I need to sit up," I say, and thankfully he allows me. Still, I don't look at him. I fold my legs, hug them, and lean my face into my knees.

A towel is draped over my shoulders, and the Braydon asks the girl to give us some space. She runs off and everything is silent again with the exception of the waves before us, my breathing, and the distant cries of children elsewhere on the beach.

"You know," he says. "I know what you were doing out there."

I throw him a quick glance.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

I hug my legs tighter.

"It's sort of a permanent solution to a—"

I look at him. "What? To a temporary problem? What do you know?"

He looks stunned into silence, but I can't look at him anymore. My burst of momentary confidence is gone, and I sink my head to my knees and cocoon myself under the towel.

He touches my back, but I shoulder him away.

"Go away," I say.

And then he must, because I hear him move. A cool fear overwhelms me. I'm not sure why. While he was present, I wanted nothing but for him to go away. Now that he's gone, I feel . . . rejected.

You're loathsome, that inner-voice speaks to me again. Sometimes it just takes a moment for people to realize it.

Just as I think I might have the strength to stand up and leave, Braydon sits beside me again and offers a bottled water.

"Thanks," I mumble sheepishly. Feeling overly self-aware, I take a few sips and offer it back.

"No, it's yours," he says and places the cap in my free hand. "And you're welcome, and I'm sorry."

I look at him as I take another swig of the water. His blond hair is short but long on top, and his teeth are overly perfect and white—like a guy in some dental ad.

Brianna would like him. Mia too, probably. Me? I just like him because he's giving me attention. Isn't that how it always is?

Embarrassed by his unflinching gaze, I turn my gaze back to the lake, and my heart sinks. I won't be able to make another attempt. Going out again would be torture.

"I didn't catch your name," the man with the perfect smile says.

"I've failed," I whisper.

"I'm sorry?"

I succeed at standing up this time and start brushing the sand off my arms.

"I have to be going now." My legs feel like Jello, but I manage to maintain balance as I pass the bikini-clad redhead. Then, I realize the towel I'm holding doesn't belong to me. I turn back and hand it to him – No, to the redhead. I correct myself midway. I don't want to appear that I'm favoring her boyfriend.

"Here," I say. "Thanks, again."

I avoid eye contact with everyone, and the girl hesitates in accepting the beach towel. The urge to run away strengthens. If someone doesn't take the towel from my hands, I'm dropping it and running.

"Can I walk you—" Braydon says.

"Nope, I'm fine," I say quickly.

Then I force the towel in the girl's hand, partially dropping it in the process, turn around, and walk off as fast as my legs will carry me. Damn that I'm still not feeling 100%. Damn that this beach is so dang long. Damn that I'm not even sure where I'm going.

"Wait. Hey, Miss. Wait. Please." Braydon jogs after me and stops in front of me. Again, I avoid his gaze. "I'm not comfortable just letting a pretty girl run off after she's nearly drowned."

I glance briefly at his face. He called me pretty? I'm not pretty —not really.

But no time for thoughts like that. My heart is racing like a rabbit's in my chest. I've got to get out of here before I have a nervous breakdown here . . . on the beach . . . in front of everyone!

"I have to go," I say.

He gestures with his hands. "Wait. Just a second, okay?"

And for some reason, I do. It's foolish, I know. Any minute I could break down into large sobs, gripping my chest, hyperventilating, and causing the same sort of catastrophe that happened my first day of senior year. Only this time, when the hospital calls to inform my aunt that my 'heart attack' was merely a panic attack, she'll find out I'm in Baraboo. My aunt hates Baraboo.

The guy returns with a permanent marker, then grabs my hand and writes some numbers.

"I know I can't stop you," he says and then looks up into my eyes. "But you call me if—" His gray eyes plead with me for a second before I avert my gaze down to my hand. " – if you need any help. Don't hesitate, okay? I don't bite."

Everyone says that! Why does everyone say that?

Stupidly, I nod. I don't know why. It means nothing. Would it be rude to try to rub the number off?

"Is there any way I could convince you to give me your name?" he says. "I'm Braydon Klein, by the way."

I respond so quietly, he is forced to say, "What was that?"

"Alison," I say sheepishly. "I'm Alison Halse." Immediately, I question the prudence of telling him my last name.

"Alison," he repeats. I'm surprised he's smiling. "Are you sure you don't want me walking you back, Alison?"

I shake my head, and finally, he lets me leave.

Taking the steps up to the grassy area, I jog back the way I came and come to a large mound. A wooden sign before it reads 'KEEP OFF' in bold white, and below that a plaque that reads 'LINEAR EFFIGY MOUND.' My beach towel lies crumbled and twisted on it.

Perfect. It seems I wasn't even thinking straight before I went into the lake. I'm surprised no one shooed me off before.

I lumber over the mound to try to snatch the towel before anyone notices, and with a swish, there is a quick peck on the back of my head. My hair flutters up, and I grip my scalp.

"What the—"

I feel for blood. There is a flutter of black wings, and the bird is in the tree squawking before me.

"Stupid crow."

The bird opens its beak, and someone behind me says, "The sign says keep off."

"Yeah," I say, rubbing my head. "I know. Sorry." A bird just attacked me, but let's pay closer attention to the sacred mound of dirt.

Gathering everything, I pull over my brown cover-up dress, slip on my flip flops, and pull my bag over my shoulder. And then all the anxiety plummets me.

Leave! Now!

So I run.

As my flip flops slap against the pavement, I dwell on the consequences of my impulsiveness. Aunt Lindsay is going to be mad, not concerned. I'm certainly going to miss my graduation. And then life goes on as before – and yet not.

School's over. I am the same, and I have nothing but a bleak and black future ahead of me—a monotone existence: TV dinners, Netflix, and radio to fill the silence, the Internet to give me the illusion of social connection.

I cannot hold back the tears much longer. My chest tightens, my heart races, and I feel as if I'm drowning all over again. Each step seems to promise several more before I reach my aunt's hybrid.

I key my way inside, lock myself in, sink into the seat, and cover my head with the beach towel again. Then I scream. I whimper. I sob. The tears flow. My chest shakes. I cry like a baby and let all the tension release from my body in one nauseating ride.

I don't know how long I go on, but eventually, a tired melancholic calm comes over me. I pull tissue from the glove-box, mop my cheeks, clear my sinuses, pull down the visor, and reapply the concealer under my eyes.

I look at myself in the mirror, and a shy frightful thing looks back at me. Definitely not pretty. My skin is deathly pale, my eyes are puffy from tears, my hair is still shedding sand, and my cheeks have a babyish puffiness to them.

"It's okay," I tell myself. "Lindsay isn't kicking you out just yet. There's time."

Though, maybe upping the dosage on the antidepressant would be advised.

Another half-hour later I awake to the sound of something smacking the glass my cheek rests upon. I open my eyes and catch a brief fluttering of something black through the corner of my left eye – a bird or something. It doesn't last long. Then I stare at my aunt's steering wheel.

I'm still in the parking lot, sweating and feeling a little ill from the heat.

I pull my phone from the glove box and open the car door to get out. A cool breeze greets me, sending goosebumps immediately to my forearms. A crow from a nearby tree caws at me, and I close the door, leaning my weight against it as I check my text messages. There are several from my aunt, but I only read the first one.

Lindsay: Where the Hell are you?

I hit reply. "Sorry drove to . . ." I hesitate on telling her where I am and delete a few letters.

A soft childlike cooing of 'Aw-lee, Aw-lee' reaches my ears. A crow whines this sound from the tree before me.

'Aw-Lee, Aw-lee. Aw-lee on.'

It makes some hallow clicking noises, tilting its head abruptly as it peers at me through its nearest eye.

I go back to my phone.

"Went on a drive. Will be home soon. Love you." Whatever I type sounds so inadequate. I hit send anyway.

"Hello, Alison," someone says—some guy I didn't realize was standing right in front of me—, and my phone slips from my fingers and hits the pavement.