Free Below by Meg McKinlay Page B

accident, to work something out. He said our brains do that — try to fix things, even when there’s nothing to be fixed. He said Dad had to move on, do new things.”
    “Like the stuff he does for the town council?”
    Liam nodded. “That’s been good. Mom wasn’t sure at first. But Finkle said to give it a go, see how things went.”
    “Finkle?”
    “Yeah, it was his idea. He said the community should take care of people.” Liam trailed one foot down into the water. “It’s hard for Dad. One minute he can be fine and then . . .”
    “Yeah.” It wasn’t a reply, but it was all I could think of to say.
    “That thing the other day . . .” he began. He stopped, hesitated, as if making up his mind about something.
    “What?”
    “It wasn’t your dad’s pot.” He looked up at me. “I mean it was, just not . . . It was the color.”
    “The color?” I frowned.
    His eyes met mine briefly, then he spoke again, as if, having decided to talk, it was easier just to keep going. “Dad doesn’t like red. Sometimes he’s okay, and sometimes he flips out, starts shaking and stuff. We don’t even wear red,” he said. “Mom and I. Just in case. There was this one time . . .” He trailed off and made circles with his toe in the water’s surface.
    “Maybe . . . do you think it was the fire?” I said.
    He stared at me.
    “Sorry,” I began. “If you don’t want to —”
    “Nah, it’s not that.” He shrugged. “It’s not as if I remember it.” He reached down and pulled a long splinter of wood from the side of the platform. “I don’t think it was that. Fire isn’t really red, anyway. It’s orange and yellow and a whole mix of things.”
    I nodded. He was right. Things can trick you like that. People tell you fire is red, so that’s what you see. But when you really look with your own eyes, it’s completely different.
    “The doctor figured it could have been anything,” Liam went on. “Just some detail his brain got stuck on. He said it probably doesn’t mean anything, even if it feels like it should.”
    As he spoke, I noticed he was rubbing the side of his leg, along the scar line.
    “Does it hurt?” I asked.
    “What, this?” He pulled the edge of his shorts up a little to reveal the edge of the knobbly scar. “I dunno. They said it can’t. The nerves are dead or disconnected or something.” He pressed the center of the scar with his finger, making it turn ghostly white. “But it’s not their leg, is it?” He stood up suddenly. “You going to go down?”
    I stared into the water, then shook my head. Maybe another day I would do it, pull myself slowly peg by peg into the darkness. Just not today.
    “Okay.” He started untying the raft. “You can ride this time.”
    I grabbed the paddle from where he’d leaned it against the tree. “Your turn to swim, then.”
    Liam raised his eyebrows.
    “What, can’t you make it?”
    He grinned. “The real question is — can you steer that thing?” He took two steps across the platform and launched into a dive. Then he was off, striking out toward the shoreline in long, easy strokes.
    When I finally made it back, after spinning and zigzagging halfway across the lake and back again, he was sitting on the bank, waiting.
    I stood up and jumped off into the shallows. Or at least, that’s what I meant to do.
    What I actually did was stand up, wobble, and overbalance, then fall into the not-so-shallows.
    I wasn’t quite as close to shore as I’d thought.
    When I surfaced, mud under my fingernails, a strand of lake weed draped in my hair like a braid, Liam was doing a slow clap. “Not bad,” he called out. “Bit rough on the entry. I’d say yesterday’s was more dramatic.”
    “Yeah.” I grabbed the edge of the raft and towed it in toward him. “Remind me to work on that.”
    I guess I was ready to laugh about it now.
    I pulled the raft through the shallows, and Liam came down to the edge to meet me. I was about to pass it to him when I