Free The Twilight Swimmer by A C Kavich Page B

said the Swimmer with a smile. His voice was soft, but firm. A clear tone. No warbling or wavering. A pure voice, strong and youthful. “Hello,” he said again, his gray eyes blinking rapidly.
    “Oh god, you talk ?” said Brandi. “We gotta get out of here.”
     
    He had been uncomfortable climbing through the window and onto the slanted roof. She suspected he had never experienced heights before, and while he was capable of walking upright he had never attempted to do so on a steep incline. But he followed her reluctantly to the apex of the roof and down the back side, and managed both the jump to the oak tree and the subsequent drop to the back lawn.
    When they reached her kayak, he watched her flip the boat over and launch it into the water. But when she climbed inside and beckoned for him to do the same, he stood on the bank with a distressed expression.
    “Would you please hurry up? My mother is probably spying right now from a dark window. She’s queen narc.”
    “Narc,” said the Swimmer, not understanding the word but enjoying the sound of it as it rolled off his tongue.
    “Just get in,” Brandi urged.
    She paddled hard, but not toward the ocean. She didn’t want to pass so many houses, and she didn’t want to navigate the difficult ocean currents with unfamiliar weight on the boat. It was built for two people, but she had never paddled out with anyone but her sister, and the Swimmer was much larger. She worried that they would topple over in even a small wave, and the water was getting colder every day.
    She paddled west, past the last house on the inlet and into the narrower passage of water, shallow and clogged with marine grass, that larger boats couldn’t traverse. The sandbars were too frequent, the twisting course of the water too meandering. Even when the rains had been heavy and the level of the water rose, the waterway was a risky venture for most any vessel. Her father had once tried to pilot his sailboat inland, to the family hunting cabin at the edge of the state park. His rifle and supplies tethered to the mast, his daughters playing cards on the bow, he had traveled about a mile before he first snagged the bottom of the hull. The sudden jolt nearly sent Brandi vaulting off the deck and into the murky water. Conrad got the boat moving again, but their passage only got more treacherous. And with each minor collision, Conrad became more certain that he’d made a terrible mistake and the boat was in trouble. He managed to turn the boat around, to the frustration of his daughters who were eager to spend their first weekend at the cabin with their father. But two hours later, he had piloted the boat only a half-mile back to safe water. His rudder was bent severely and hardly functioning, and he was not at all surprised when the wind suddenly died. His off-board motor would do them no good with so much heavy reed, water lily and cattail eager to clog the props, and so he jumped out and hauled the small boat to shore. It was a mighty effort for even a large man and two enthusiastic girls to portage the boat out of the marsh and up to the nearest road.
    Right there, Brandi thought. That’s where we waited for someone to drive by and take us to the gas station to call Mom. She pictured her father and sister leaning against the hull, filthy with mud and grass, while they waited for help to arrive in the form of an irate woman in a severe ponytail, hands on hips and mouth turned down in an intentional frown.
    The memory only stayed with Brandi for a moment, though. She remembered her passenger.
    The Swimmer sat awkwardly at the back of the kayak. He was so long in the legs that he couldn’t fit in the rear seat. Instead, he sat on the stern, off-balance and obviously uncomfortable, his knees up near his chest and his hands perpetually groping for a grip. Her father’s wet clothes had mostly dried, and no longer clung to him so tightly. The cool night air ruffled the torn fabric of his shirt and