The Weight of Water

Thomas Adler had developed a peculiar habit over the past five years. Each morning, before the sun fully crested the eastern shore of Lake Serenity, he would stand at the end of his dock with a cup of black coffee in hand and stare out at a particular section of water where the lake ran deepest.

He never brought binoculars. He never took photos. He just stood there, watching the lake's surface ripple in the morning breeze. This morning was no different.

The early August air hung heavy with humidity, promising another scorching and wet day. Thomas's cotton t-shirt already clung to the curve of his back as he squinted against the glare.

Fifty-eight looked good on some men. Salt-and-pepper beards adding to their distinguished gaze. Decades on the water, carving their bodies into lean, weathered sculptures of sinew and quiet strength. But Thomas wasn't one of them. Deep creases lined his weathered face, and his once-athletic frame had softened around the middle. Only his eyes remained sharp—pale blue and sternly observant, though these days they carried a distant quality, as if perpetually focused on something others couldn't see.

"Another beautiful day in paradise," he sarcastically muttered to no one.

The words had become a ritual, like the standing itself. Paradise. The irony wasn't lost on him. Five years ago, he might have meant it. Now it was just something to say—as meaningless as the various platitudes people had offered him in the aftermath.

Everything happens for a reason. You did what you had to do. Time heals all wounds.

Bullshit, all of it.

A soft cheerful ring from his cellphone echoed from somewhere inside the cabin. Thomas didn't move. Whoever it was could wait—or better yet, give up. The ringing stopped, then started again almost immediately. With a sigh, he turned and walked back along the wooden planks of the dock, his bare feet navigating the familiar worn spots and protruding nails without conscious thought.

Inside, the cabin was cool and dim. Thomas had inherited the place from his father three years before the incident. He'd spent months renovating it, replacing rotted boards, updating the ancient plumbing, aligning and realigning picture frames, making it a home rather than just a seasonal getaway. Now it was simply where he existed—more bunker than home.

He picked up the phone on the fourth ring. "Adler."

"You know, you always sound like you're answering a business call." His sister Elaine's voice carried the familiar blend of affection and exasperation. "Would it kill you to say 'hello' like a normal person?"

"Probably," Thomas replied, moving to the kitchen to pour his second coffee of the day. His one word answers were not lost on Elaine, who had grown used to his routine.

"It's August 15th."

Thomas's hand stilled on the coffee pot. Of course he knew the date. He was many things, but forgetful wasn't one of them. Every day for the past five years had been carefully counted, each one simultaneously an achievement for having survived it and a burden for doing so.

"The memorial service is at four," Elaine continued when he didn't respond. "Mayor Coleman is speaking this year. They're dedicating that new rescue boat."

"Mmh." He pressed the phone to his ear more out of habit than interest.

"Tommy..." Her voice softened. "It's been five years. Don't you think it's time you c—"

"Busy." He interrupted, the lie coming easily. He had nothing going on. He never did. After retiring from the Lake County Search and Rescue Department, his days had taken on a formless quality, one slowly bleeding into the next without distinction.

"What exactly do you have going on?" Elaine challenged. "Besides staring at the lake and avoiding human contact?"

Thomas merely coughed to clear his throat. A sign of his patience wearing thin. Elaine could hear the ruffle of his jacket as he pinched the bridge of his nose, then the soft thud of the phone being set down on the counter.

Elaine sighed. "The department still asks about you," she said a little louder, "Marco mentioned they've kept your position open."

"Mmm." Thomas replied plainly, knowing this was Elaine's attempt to get him out of the house and back to being her version of "normal". He placed the phone back to his ear.

"He cares about you. We all do." She paused. "Nobody blames you, Tommy. I don't blame you. You need to stop blaming yourself."

To this, Thomas looked out towards the lake and said nothing. What was there to say? They'd had this conversation a dozen times in a dozen ways. His sister meant well, but she didn't understand. Nobody did.

Silence filled every space. The phone, the house, the lake. Silence.

"At least think about coming. It would mean a lot to the community to see you there."

"Mm-hm." Another lie.

After hanging up, Thomas carried his coffee to the porch swing and lowered himself onto the cushionless seat. The chain creaked under his weight as he set the swing in motion with a gentle push of his foot. The rhythm was soothing, meditative. Across the lake, a fishing boat puttered along the shoreline. He watched it with detached interest, feeling nothing but a vague sense of distance, as if observing a scene from another life.

The doctors had a name for this feeling—this emotional flatness. Anhedonia. The inability to feel pleasure. A symptom of PTSD. They prescribed pills that he took for six months before flushing down the toilet. The medication had dulled the pain, yes, but it had dulled everything else too. It seemed important, somehow, that he continued to feel something.

His gaze drifted toward that specific section of deep water again. He wondered, as he often did, what it looked like down there. Ninety feet deep. Dark. Cold. Silent. He'd been certified for deep-water rescue diving, but never been that far down. Morbid curiosity filled his mind.

The sudden blaring of a boat horn shattered his thoughts. Coffee sloshed over the rim of his mug onto his hand. "Shit," Thomas cursed, setting the cup down on the porch railing. A speedboat cut too close to a pontoon, the driver now gesturing angrily as he sped away.

Thomas's jaw tightened. Once, he would have been the first to respond if that near-miss had become something worse. Now he just watched, a spectator to others' potential disasters.

By noon, the temperature had climbed to ninety-two degrees. Thomas sat in his truck outside Wexler's General Store, the air conditioning running full blast. He needed supplies—coffee, bread, something for dinner—but found himself reluctant to go inside. Saturdays meant tourists, and tourists meant questions from people who recognized him. Aren't you that rescue guy? What really happened that day?… Thinking about it alone spiked his anxiety.

He'd gotten better at brushing past them, at keeping his responses curt enough to discourage further conversation without seeming outright hostile. Still, each interaction drained him.

After a few deep breaths, Thomas cut the engine and headed inside, grabbing a red plastic basket by the door. He kept his head down, moving efficiently through the aisles. Coffee. Bread. Pizza. Beer. Enough to get through the next few days.

"Thomas. Thought that was you."

Thomas suppressed a groan as he turned to face Bill Wexler, the store's third-generation owner. Bill had coached Thomas in Little League years ago and never abandoned the role of mentor, despite Thomas having no need for one.

"Bill," Thomas nodded.

"Haven't seen you in a couple weeks. Keeping busy out there in the cabin?"

"Mmh."

Bill leaned against the freezer case. "You coming to the memorial service later? Heard they've got that new rescue vessel all decked out. Named it after your niece. 'The Lily,' they're calling it."

Thomas's chest tightened at the name. Lily. Elaine's daughter. Seven years old. She would have been twelve now. Would have been.

"Not sure yet," he managed.

Bill nodded, though his expression suggested he knew a deflection when he heard one. "Well, it would mean a lot to see you there."

"Appreciate it." Thomas glanced at his basket.

To cut the awkwardness short, Thomas moved toward the checkout, aware of Bill's eyes following him.

"Right." Bill said. "Won't keep you. Have a nice day Thomas." He nodded in response.

Outside, Thomas loaded his meager groceries into the passenger seat of his truck. As he was about to get in, a woman's voice called his name. He turned to see Sarah Oakes walking toward him. She'd aged well in the five years since he'd last spoken to her.

Thomas's stomach clenched. Of all the people to run into today.

"I thought that was you," Sarah said, stopping a few feet away. Her expression was carefully neutral. "How have you been?"

"Fine," Thomas replied. "You?"

"Managing." She adjusted her sunglasses. "I've taken over as head of the hospital's emergency department."

"Congratulations."

Another awkward silence stretched between them. Once, they'd been more than colleagues. More than friends. That had ended the day of the incident—not with a dramatic confrontation, but with a gradual, mutual distancing that had seemed inevitable to them both.

"Are you coming today?" she finally asked. "To the memorial?"

Thomas shook his head, tapping his thumb against the steel door.

Something flashed in Sarah's eyes—disappointment, maybe, or frustration. "It's been five years, Thomas. We want to see you."

"I doubt that."

"You can't hide out in that cabin forever."

His tapping became more exaggerated.

Sarah sighed, pushing her sunglasses up to rest on top of her head. Her green eyes studied him with clinical precision. "You know what I think? I think it’s not their judgment. You're staying away because you're afraid that they understand. That they forgive you. And you're not ready to be forgiven."

Thomas felt a flare of anger, the first real emotion he'd experienced in months. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" Sarah stepped closer. "I was there that day too, remember? I treated the survivors. I pronounced the dead. I saw what it did to you. What it's still doing to—"

Thomas turned and walked to his truck, cutting her off as he yanked open the door.

"Fine." Sarah stepped back. "But, Thomas. What would Lily want you to do? Live in exile? Or use what happened to make a difference?"

Thomas got into his truck without responding and shut the door firmly. As Sarah walked away from the closed door, Thomas sat there for several minutes, hands gripping the steering wheel, before finally starting the engine and pulling out of the parking lot.

The lake was choppy when Thomas returned to the cabin, wind whipping up whitecaps across its surface. A storm was moving in from the west, dark clouds building on the horizon. The weather service had issued a small craft advisory that morning.

Thomas put away his groceries, then stood at the kitchen window, watching the advancing storm. August storms could be vicious, appearing suddenly and turning the normally placid waters treacherous within minutes. He knew this better than most. The forecast reminded him uncomfortably of that day five years ago. Similar conditions. Similar warnings.

Without conscious decision, Thomas found himself walking to the room he'd converted to an office. He flipped on the light to reveal walls covered in maps of the lake, depth charts, and weather reports. In the center of the room stood a dusty table with a detailed model of Lake Serenity, lovingly crafted over hundreds of hours. Each contour of the shoreline, each variation in depth was represented with painstaking accuracy.

He approached the model slowly, his fingers tracing the greatest depth. X marks the spot, he thought grimly. Except there was no X, just the smooth blue surface of the resin he'd used to simulate water.

On the desk beside the model lay a folder. The official incident report, complete with witness statements, meteorological data, and the coroner's findings. Thomas had read it so many times he had entire sections memorized, though it had been months since he'd last opened it.

The photographs were the hardest part. Not the bodies—he'd seen enough of those in his twenty-three years with Search and Rescue to have developed a professional detachment. No, it was the earlier photos. David and his niece Lily at the marina that morning, smiling for a tourist's camera that had later been recovered. David in his new boat—his first boat—looking proud and a little nervous. Lily in her pink life vest, giving a thumbs-up to her Uncle Thomas.

Thomas closed the folder and returned it to the desk. Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance. The storm was getting closer. He should secure the porch furniture, make sure the generator was fueled in case the power went out. Instead, he found himself drawn back to the lake model, to that deep-water section that had claimed two lives.

The meteorologist had given him twenty minutes before the worst of the storm would hit. Twenty minutes that might have been enough. Might have been. Or might have resulted in something far worse. The simple math of impossible choices didn't make the weight any easier to bear.

Especially when one of those two had been a child who'd waved to him just that morning. His own niece whose father had asked him for advice about life jacket regulations only weeks earlier.

Thomas's phone buzzed in his pocket. A text from Elaine: Service starts in an hour. Back row seat, if you change your mind.

He set the phone on the desk without responding and walked back into the cabin. The air felt charged, electric with the approaching storm. Thomas opened the front door and stepped onto the porch. The wind had picked up, bending the tops of the pine trees that surrounded the property. Across the lake, lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the churning water.

Three boats were still out there, racing for the safety of the marina before the storm hit. Thomas watched their progress with professional assessment. They'd make it, barring any mechanical failures or errors. Still, he found himself mentally plotting a rescue route, calculating response times, considering wind direction and wave height.

Old habits.

The first fat raindrops began to fall as Thomas watched. One of the boats—a small fishing vessel—seemed to be struggling, its progress slower than the others. Engine trouble, maybe. Thomas tensed, years of training kicking in as he reached for the radio that was no longer clipped to his belt.

For a moment, he was back there again. August 15th, five years ago. The storm bearing down. The radio crackling with distress calls.

The fishing boat made a sudden turn, changing course. Not toward the marina, but toward the eastern shore—closer, safer in the rising wind. Smart move. The tension in Thomas's shoulders eased.

He stepped back inside as the rain began to fall in earnest, closing the door against the building storm. The digital clock on the microwave read 3:15 PM. Forty-five minutes until the memorial service. He could still make it if he left now.

Sarah's words echoed in his mind. What would Lily want you to do?

Thomas walked to the bedroom and stood before the closet. Behind the flannels and worn jeans hung his old Search and Rescue uniform, preserved in dry cleaner's plastic. He hadn't worn it since the day he'd resigned. Hadn't even looked at it.

He reached for it now, fingers brushing the plastic before dropping away. Not the uniform. But perhaps...

Twenty minutes later, Thomas stood before the bathroom mirror, barely recognizing the man who stared back. He'd shaved off his beard, revealing a face thinner than he remembered. He'd put on his one good suit. It hung loose on his frame now.

Outside, the storm had arrived in full force, rain lashing against the windows as thunder boomed overhead. The power flickered once, then stabilized. Thomas checked his watch. 3:40 PM. If he left now and the roads weren't flooded, he could still make it.

Did he want to make it?

The question hung in the air as he grabbed his keys. He didn't have an answer, not really. But for the first time in five years, he felt something pushing through the numbness. Not hope—he was still too broken for that. But perhaps something that showed maybe, just maybe, it was time to try something else.

Thomas stepped out into the storm, rain immediately soaking through his suit jacket as he ran to his truck. The engine started on the first try, wipers struggling to keep up with the downpour as he backed out of the driveway onto the narrow lake road.

He drove carefully, mindful of the slick pavement and limited visibility. The memorial would be held at the Lake Serenity Rescue Center, a facility funded largely by donations that had poured in after the incident. Thomas had never seen it, rather, deliberately avoided it.

As he neared the turn, his hands tightened on the steering wheel. Through the rain-streaked windshield, he could make out cars parked along the road, people hurrying toward the building with umbrellas raised against the storm.

Thomas slowed, pulling over to the side of the road, engine still running. Through the rain, he could just make out the white hull of a rescue boat displayed prominently near the entrance to the center. The Lily.

His throat tightened. Could he face the consequences of his choice?

His hands began to shake as the memory overwhelmed him.

"Continue the search for David and Lily or redirect all resources to the boat, sir? We don't have time for both." Marco's voice in the driving rain, waiting for an order as the wind rose and the radio crackled with panicked voices from the pontoon.

And Thomas, knowing what it would cost, knowing it would haunt him for the rest of his life, had given the only order he could: "Redirect to the pontoon. All units."