When Lacey Waits wakes up from sleep, the first thing she does is breathe. The second thing she does is scream.

Once the fear has left her lungs and she realizes where she is - not submerged, not running through a field, not laying in the middle of a highway - she lets things process. The dream comes rushing back to her, her memory fully intact. Even if she wanted to forget, she doubts the vivid nature of it would let her. It burns in her mind, seared. The pool of light. The sight of her own face in a window. The girl with the bow. Ro-Anne's freckled face refracted through the water. Hands built of bone, touching her. She shivers.

She sits up, taking shallow breaths that just keep getting faster and faster. Her hands fumble for the phone on her nightstand. The password doesn't work the first four times; she can't stop quaking. When it does, she goes straight to her contacts and then smushes the screen against the sweat on her cheek. It rings. Someone answers. They sound confused - it's not like her to initiate anything at all, even a phone call.

"Hello?"

"Gideon." Her throat is raw and her mouth is dry. She swallows. Another bead of sweat races down her temple. "I know where Ro-Anne is."

There's a long pause, something akin to an eternity, but when he responds, his voice is grave. "I'll be there soon. Be ready." The line goes dead, the phone slips from Lacey's fingers, and she realizes just how soaked through with sweat she is. Like she was swimming in it, almost.

She doesn't want to get out of bed. She really, really doesn't want to get out of bed, and she certainly doesn't want to leave the comfort and safety of home. But she can't stay here, she knows that, not while a body remains hidden, not while that girl's parents still don't have their daughter to bury, and certainly not after it's been made quite clear that she's the only one the bony fellas can point in the right direction. It fills her with deep, inky dread, but she has to get up. She has to.

On weak knees, she peels the wet clothes from her body and throws on something light but sturdy. It's a chore to get through brushing her teeth and she doesn't dare brush out the moist tangles in her hair but throws it into a pony instead and she must move slow because just as she eyeballs an unsavory bump in her hair the doorbell reverberates through the house, a haunting melody that makes her stomach jump.

She waits a moment. There's no sound of movement in the other room. Eventually, she creeps down the stairs, gut curdling all the while. She puts her hand on the doorknob, but stops herself short. There's a note on the kitchen counter from her father, a notice that he's got a long shift today so he won't be back until late - a notice reminding her not to leave and to do her homework. The corner of her mouth twitches and she backs away like she never saw it to begin with.

She returns to the door, checks the peephole to make sure it's Gideon's fish-eyed face staring back at her, and then joins him in the front yard, where he stands with his legs on either side of a bike. "You still have the one you stole, yeah?"

"I borrowed it," she corrects, but even then it's weak, and she's not in her own head, not right now, so she forgets the comment and wheels the bike from around the side of the house before settling upon it.

He stares at her for a long while, then nods. "Lead the way."

At first she thinks maybe she's gone and forgotten everything at once, that this is suddenly a lost cause because she waited just a moment too long or didn't write the directions down. Then she sets the pedals into motion and starts down her wide street, and it all comes rushing back in great, gruesome detail. Her legs grind against the pedals and then she's shredding road, and even Gideon has some degree of trouble keeping up as she flies around the corner.

There's the pebbled road heading up the cliff to the warehouses, and then there's a shallow dirt path headed into the woods beside the incline, the one they'd taken as a detour to get to the Foster house. She takes this latter path, a road less travelled, and she rides so fast that her rear goes rising and slamming back down on the seat with violent fury. All she allows herself is a recurring wince of pain. She doesn't stop and she doesn't slow. If she stops, if she slows, it'll all go away, it'll all disappear, and they'll never find Ro and by extension never find Erie and she can't let his life slip out of her hands like that-

Her face hardens and she digs teeth into her lip as she races on. Spring is stronger here but the world passes by in a blur of green and brown and the birds sing but it sounds more like screaming in her ears and she needs to make a turn here, where the ground begins to dip, and she does, heart throbbing with panic as she skids down. She can't put on the brakes even if she wanted to.

"Slow down!" Gideon calls in the distance. "You'll crash into a tree! Or the flood waters! You know that's where we're headed, right?"

"Yeah," she hollers back.

"I trust you," he returns.

You shouldn't, she wants to say, but she keeps it locked up within her. Eventually, her ears tickle with the distant gush and trickle of water. The ground softens and the wheels turn slower, digging into the mud. Before long, the dark pool comes into her sights, and it doesn't stop coming into her sights, reaching out for what must be miles in this dank forest, in these barren backwoods where houses sit underwater.

She rides up close to the edge and then turns the wheel sharply, just a few feet before she can ride into water. It laps up against a new dirt shore. Gideon joins her, turning his wheel similarly. He looks out at the flooding with general distaste, a frown, and nods to reassure himself. "We have to go out there to find her, don't we?"

"Somehow, yeah." It doesn't help that he sounds put off by the idea - he's not put off by anything. "The water looks calm," she offers, "we just need something that floats. And won't sink once we touch it."

They stay on their bikes a moment, simply staring out at this beast of nature. There's one roof they can see barely peeking out of the water already, a one-story's shingles and chimney and all the things that must've been sitting around the yard all floating as debris in the water now. There's a plastic playset in primary colors covered in a slop of mud and bugs; a bucket over there, rusted; a clothesline and all the laundry still clipped floats, snagged on the bark of a tree while dresses and sheets soak to the color of shit and piss. It's depressing, staring out at all of it, at someone's life just floating out there. Quiet, too. Too quiet.

Gideon finally dismounts his bike and flings it to the ground. He comes close to her, cheek almost brushing her ear, and points to something near the roof. "Y'see that? The long yellow thing?"

She does. She has to squint to make out what it is. "Canoe." Overturned. And far. Well, not far, but too far to just reach out and grab it. "How the hell are we gonna get it?"

"We improvise."

While Gideon takes off in search of anything long enough to prod the canoe with, Lacey dismounts her bike and tosses it to the side next to his. It throws up dirt and speckles the metal on both but she waves her hand at the mess and watches as he joins her, dragging a long, meaty branch behind him. "It's got a hooked end," he says, straining, "I'm thinking we can catch it underneath and pull it this way, but I'll need your help."

She wraps her hands around it, firm, and the two struggle to get as close to the water without the mud slipping out from under them as they try to guide the branch. It splashes them but they eventually find purchase, and then they're fishing the canoe out until one end squelches into the shore before them. They drop the branch aside with a relieved huff and then work together to flip the little boat right-side up without retaining water.

Once it's situated, they share a look with one another. "Are you sure you're okay with this?" he asks.

She's not, but she climbs into the canoe in response, then gestures for the big branch again. "We don't have any oars so we'll need to push ourselves off stuff to keep us moving," she says. He lays it over the sides, just above her lap. Then, with him giving a solid push in the back, she's floating forward, everything bobbing around her. Her hands grasp the sides, knuckles pulled tight, as Gideon hops into the back and the canoe rocks like it might tip any second. It never really stabilizes, not enough for Lacey's liking, but Gideon's reassuring hand on her shoulder helps ease the tension. "Thanks."

They settle. Ripples fan out, the color of sludge and the consistency of tap water. Lacey lifts the branch and Gideon helps direct it as they had last time. The thick end of it presses into the bark of the tree, and with burning muscles, they push off from it. They still float along slower than they would if they'd had oars, but the dirt shore gets further and further, and other things to push off from get nearer and nearer.

They use the roof of the nearly submerged house. Then of a shed, the top of which can barely be seen under the surface of the water. They continue on this way for a while, shoving off abandoned structures and trees and anything else they find. The clack of the branch on these things is rhythmic, almost, and after some time, she grows used to the moisture soaking through her pants from the bench. When they drift, she looks out at the endlessness of it all, and she looks up at the grey morning sky, clumpy, and at the branches criss-crossing above. Some are still bare, but some are lush with full buds.

Regardless of which creed the trees belong to, they're all home to the skeletal fiends - or friends - that came to her in sleep. Some stand in the crooks where thick branches meet the trunks; others sit upon them, their toes dipping and splashing. This isn't too far from what she'd expect of them, except that one thing, one blaring thing, is different now.

They pay her mind.

It's solid reassurance that she wasn't just dreaming last night, that it wasn't just some fever dream. She's not sure that makes her feel better at all, though. About any of this.

She ignores the tight, sinking feeling in her chest as best she can and looks behind Gideon, to the skies again. They may be in the woods behind Ro's home - far from it, but still those woods - but the rocky cliffside is still visible between the trees in the far-off distance, the cliff that boasts Kelly's Market and the diner and the mini warehouses. The cliff where everything safe from the flood lives. It makes her feel small, like she's been in a bubble all this while even though she's sailing through the thick of it. Maybe she has been. Maybe she's been blocking herself off from the reality of it because it doesn't feel like reality.

Another bony fella taps the water with its heels. This is her reality. And so is the quick slash of dread that slams into her chest the moment she sees the house from her dream come into view around the corner. She hitches in a breath and presses a palm to her stinging eyes and stays like that until her breaths are semi-normal again, but still, she can't help but think, over and over, I can't go in there. I'm not getting out of this boat. I can't go in there.

Gideon senses her discomfort. Boo. "This is it, isn't it? You okay? You can wait out here, it's fine. I can go in and find- I can find her."

"No." Why am I saying no, stupid? "I have to be there too. You won't know where she is."

They bob along, and the building grows simpler and simpler as they near. She'd expected it to be menacing. Dark and towering. Full of shadows and eyes. But it's not. It's just a two-story house (not a home), abandoned and half-submerged like everything else out here. There's no glass in the windows anymore, and some of the shingles are missing from the roof, and there's dirt and mud and dead bugs splattered on the panelling which would otherwise be white. Sunlight freely streams into the second story, and she can see from here how bright the rooms are. Bright and empty.

So no, it's not menacing. Just sad. Especially knowing what she knows about this house, about the secrets in the walls.

Gideon takes over getting them to one of those walls. Wood clacks against wood as he swings the canoe into place, just beneath one of the second story windows. "We can't get the canoe in there," he says.

She turns to him, disdain on her features. "No, really?"

He crinkles his nose at her. "All's I'm saying is we've gotta be ready to get wet. And climb. You first, I'll give you a boost."

Gideon rises up on his haunches, and the wooden slab beneath them quakes. He reaches for purchase on the wall and swallows. His fingers weave together. "C'mon, be quick about it. I can't hold you up too long without this thing tipping."

She sits there for a moment, blinking at the hands with uncertainty. Then a fly buzzes nearly into her ear, she swats it away, and gets up, grumbling. The boat rocks, but she's quick to grab onto the panelling. Gideon's palms are there and then her foot is on his palms and then he's heaving her up, crying out as the boat starts to tip. She grabs hold of the sill and although there's quite a bit of struggle involved in getting herself through the window, she eventually crawls in.

And gracelessly falls flat on the floor.

With a groan, she pushes herself up and peeps over the sill at Gideon. He somehow managed to keep it stable. Good for him. She gives him a thumbs-up and moments later, he's up in the window too, feet on the sill, then next to hers. "Right," he says, wavering as he adjusts to solid ground. "We're here, then."

His voice is quiet, soft, and there is a sullen shape to his eyes. Lacey presses her lips into a loose frown and they stare at one another as the house moans around them, settling on repeat. There's graffiti on one wall, but otherwise they're creme, bare. Aside from the spiders in the corner, the flies caught in their webs, and the sparse spattering of moths by the doorway. They're too recurrent to be a coincidence. She starts in their direction, stomach crawling at the sight of spiders scurrying above. She steps into the hall.

It's darker out here, where little light reaches. The floor creaks too much for comfort. She tests the wood before putting her full weight on any steps. Wings brush her cheek, then she brushes her cheek with damp fingers. Sweat. We get closer to a dead body with every step. The walls groan as a gust of wind pushes against the house. There's a dead body down there. She swallows and takes one last step before she's at the top of the stairs.

The slope of the ceiling above them obstructs most of what's down there, but what she can see nearly psyches her out. Water rises halfway to the ceiling - or maybe higher; if asked, she'd consider this a glass half-full situation. For the first time, that doesn't mean something good. It moves, pulsing over a high step, inching back and showing the rotting board, inching forward and covering it again. And it does cover it, oh yes. The water is topped with a thick layer of green algae or...or something. Like some giant smeared it there, thinking it icing to top a cake.

Well. She rubs her sleeve under her nose, brows knit and one eye scrunched with frustration. The cake smells like shit. Let's go.

One step at a time, she nears the first floor, but tentatively, as though it's a living mass that might snap and bite at her feet if she gets too close or it gets too hungry. It shouldn't be, though. It's already been hiding away one girl in its liquid gut. That should be enough.

And yet, Lacey still dips a booted foot beyond the thick top layer, giving herself to the water entirely to fuel its appetite. A foul odor rises up from the surface, and she wants to pull the collar of her shirt over her nose, but it's useless. The collar will fall down or the smell will penetrate or both. Better she gets used to it now. Same sentiment she used when the ghosts started showing up, and now here she is. Being stared at by a ghastly skull that pokes out of the algae. Just watching. Curious.

"Take a picture," she snaps, "it'll last longer."

The skull sinks beneath the surface of the water, and so do her knees. It's cold in some places, and warmer than it should be in others, and it all combines to force a disgusted whimper out of her, but she continues on.

"Wait," Gideon says, and he doesn't have to say it twice. She glances back at him and he points to the ceiling. "It's unfinished. Or that part of the ceiling was taken out. Whatever, point is, if you can grab onto the slabs of wood poking out like that, you can probably swing yourself across without having to go..." His lip curls with revulsion. "Y'know, in that...all the way. Say, you ever see Titanic?"

"What?"

"Like, how Kate Winslet, she had to go back into the lower levels of the ship to get to Jack, or Leo, or- well, she swung herself through the hall when the water was high enough by grabbing onto the pipes and lighting stuff. Basically do that."

For the most part, she ignores the rest of what he says since she picked up on it after he'd pointed out the unfinished ceiling itself, but she doesn't move any further, because it suddenly strikes her that she doesn't know which of these walls Ro is behind. They're all much the same, all sustaining the same levels of water damage: almost blackened nearest the water, then rising in various shades of brown until it reaches the off-white of the rest of the house. "Fuck," she mutters. "Just, fuck."

Something flutters against the wetness on her cheeks and the flap of its wings is loud. She follows the noise. There, it flies and lands next to a crack near the ceiling. It's so thin she would've missed it otherwise...

Her eyes widen and she reaches out for a slab of open ceiling to grab onto. "Gideon, look for a crack near the top of the walls. Real thin."

"There are cracks all over the damn place."

"Then knock for hollows!"

She continues swinging herself forward, but nothing like Kate Winslet. Kate Winslet had a slim figure on her side, and the water had been clear, pumped in through a hose or something. Lacey Waits is decidedly un-slim, and this water is mucky and slow and it makes her gag every five seconds. Still, she manages. Through all the slop and bullshit, she manages.

And yes, there are a great deal of cracks on the walls. Only one - one she might've missed if her eyes weren't adjusted enough to the light provided only by a few inches of window - has a moth, big and fat and firmly settled on the spot she needs to be. Even though it churns her stomach contents as badly as she's churning this water with her presence, she continues forward, and Gideon splashes along behind her.

They stop in front of the wall. The air throbs here. Ro-Anne is behind that slab of wood and Lacey knows it. When she looks to Gideon, it's clear he knows it too, from her face. He nods. "I'll get our branch."

Then he's gone, and it's just her and the wall. She glances to the left, to the right. They are truly alone here. How long has Ro-Anne been alone, begging and pleading for someone to let her out of this wall, even in death? She shudders just thinking of the few minutes she spent there in sleep.