Alki Beach

The first breath sounded like a scream.

I gasped, choking on a mix of air and seawater. The rain hit my face, hard and stinging, and it was the most beautiful sensation I had ever felt.

"Kick!" the cyclist yelled. His voice was hoarse, choked with water. "Get to the rocks!"

We were only twenty feet from the shore, but my limbs felt like lead. The cold had shut down my muscles. He grabbed my arm again, towing me, swimming sideways against the current.

We hit the jagged riprap rocks of the embankment. I clawed at the slimy stones, tearing my fingernails, dragging myself out of the crushing grip of the Sound.

I collapsed onto the wet asphalt of the bike path. I rolled onto my back, coughing until I retched.

I looked over. The cyclist was lying a few feet away, sprawled in the shape of a star. He ripped his helmet off and threw it. He was young, maybe twenty-five, with a bloody nose and eyes that looked haunted.

He sat up, wiping the rain from his face. He looked at me.

"You swerved," he wheezed.

I coughed up more water. "I didn't want to hit you."

"You almost died," he said. "You went into the water."

"You came in after me," I whispered. My voice was a croak. "Why?"

He looked at the dark water churning below the guardrail. "I couldn't just watch."

A siren wailed in the distance. Blue and red lights flickered against the low clouds, getting louder, getting closer. The Fire Department.

I sat up, shivering so violently my teeth clacked together. I looked out at the bay. The water was black and smooth. There was no sign of the car. No bubbles. No lights.

My laptop was down there. My phone was down there. The project files, the deployment keys, the angry texts from David—all of it was sitting in the silt at the bottom of Elliott Bay.

"My deadline," I said. The words felt absurd, like a joke in a foreign language.

"What?" the cyclist asked.

I started to laugh. It was a jagged, hysterical sound that hurt my chest.

"I missed my deadline," I said, leaning back against the cold, hard guardrail. I closed my eyes and let the rain wash the salt from my skin. "I missed it. And it doesn't matter."

The cyclist watched me for a moment, then he let out a short, breathless laugh too. He reached out a hand. I took it. His grip was warm.

"I'm Mark," he said.

"I'm Elena," I replied. "I'm alive."