Chapter Six
DEEP WATERS
Jack
The water’s cold. The kind that sinks into your bones and settles there—biting and heavy.
I adjust my mask and kick down another few feet.
Visibility’s trash, but I know these waters, know what I’m doing.
We’ve been out here since first light. A drowning victim—a young guy in his early twenties.
His kayak was found yesterday afternoon, bobbing against the shoreline.
No sign of him since. His family is up there now, waiting—silent.
The worst kind of quiet. I’ve seen it before.
I’ll see it again. It doesn’t make it any easier.
This is the part no one talks about—the part where the search stops being about saving someone and starts being about finding them, bringing them home, giving someone answers.
Closure. That’s the only thing I care about.
I don’t crack jokes or try to lighten the mood.
Walt does enough of that for both of us.
That’s his thing. I don’t need to be the guy who offers sad smiles through this. I need to be the one who finishes it.
The radio in my ear crackles. “Anything?” Walt asks, his voice easy—too easy.
“Not yet,” I answer. “Pushing west.”
“Copy that.”
I surface long enough to adjust my gear and get my bearings. The current is moving along at a pretty good clip. I’m guessing he got pushed further than we’re expecting.
I go under again. There’s comfort in the rhythm: breath, dive, scan, resurface, repeat. I’ve been doing this for fifteen years now. Five years in the Army taught me how to keep moving when things get dark. This job taught me how to live with it. I wouldn’t know who I was without it.
But lately… something’s off. Not with the work, but with me.
I’m good at this—being steady, being the one people count on. But outside of it? I don’t know. The hours feel longer. The house feels emptier. It’s been over ten years since the divorce—ten years of being fine on my own. Until I wasn’t.
Which is why I signed up for that damn dating app.
It still feels ridiculous. I spent half an hour convincing myself it was stupid, that it wasn’t real—that people are supposed to meet the old-fashioned way: at bars, bookstores, or while reaching for the same ripe avocado in the produce aisle.
Except apparently that only happens in movies. And when you spend all your time working, training, and buying protein powder on autopilot, you don’t exactly bump into anyone new.
So yeah, I signed up. I picked a picture where I didn’t look like I was about to arrest someone, wrote a line about dogs, hiking, and coffee, and swiped a little before bed. I thought maybe I’d delete it in the morning.
And then there she was—Kate. Cute smile, kind eyes, a teacher. She looked like someone who doesn’t take shit from anyone, which, apparently, is my type.
I matched with her.
Didn’t expect that.
I messaged her last night. Nothing wild—just something real. And now… now I’m wondering if she answered.
But I don’t check. Not yet.
Because there’s still work to do.
I resurface again, haul myself back into the boat, soaking and sore. Walt hands me a towel. “You good?” he asks. I nod. He doesn’t ask more.
My phone’s in my bag, tucked beneath my gear.
I could look.
But I don’t.
Not while someone’s still waiting onshore.
Not until I’ve done what I came here to do.
“Let’s move west,” I say, and Walt agrees, as does our team lead, starting up the boat and pointing us in that direction.
Walt’s been around longer than most. He retired two years ago—officially, anyway. It didn’t take. He’s still here, volunteering like he never left. Says it keeps him sane. I think he just doesn’t know how to stop.
He was the first one who showed me the ropes when I joined the team fifteen years ago. Taught me how to read a scene, how to know when it’s time to push and when to pull back. I was younger then, angrier—thought I could carry it all.
Walt’s the only one who knows I still try to.
He doesn’t say much unless it matters. But when he does, I listen.
Most of the time.
I fiddle with my gear on the short ride over and check my air supply. I drop in when we stop and head back under. It should feel eerie; instead, it’s second nature.
I spot him just past the drop-off, caught in the rocks. His jacket’s torn, and the kayak paddle is still floating a few feet away. I don’t pause or think; I just move. It’s not shock anymore, not sadness—it’s just work. I radio up, my voice flat. “Found him.”
Walt responds, quick and sharp. “Copy. We’re ready topside.”
I haul the body up, careful and respectful. It’s not about who they were to me; it’s who they were to someone else—that’s all that matters. We get him bagged, strapped, and secured. Walt handles the gear, quieter than usual. He knows I don’t talk much after.
As we reach the shore, the family’s waiting. The mother’s face crumples. The father just nods, stiff, like his chest might cave in.
I take it in. Let myself feel it. Let it sit heavy.
It’s supposed to.
Walt squeezes my shoulder. “You did what you could.”
“I know.”
The ambulance pulls up, doors already open. Two EMTs hop out—I recognize one of them, Cole.
I’m good with names—always have been. And he’s not someone I’d forget even if I weren’t.
He’s got that look—easy, calm, like he’s here to help but isn’t crushed under it like the rest of us. He nods at me as they approach.
“Rough one,” Cole says, glancing at the scene.
“No shit,” I reply.
Brennan starts loading the stretcher while Cole lingers, hands on his hips.
“You good, man?” he asks.
“Fine.”
Cole gestures at the family, his voice a little softer. “You handled it. That’s something.”
I turn to him, my jaw tight. “You think I do this for a pat on the back?”
His eyebrows lift, surprised. “No, I just meant—”
“Don’t. Don’t try to make it light. There’s nothing light about this.”
Cole backs off, hands raised. “Alright. Got it.”
Brennan watches us, eyebrows raised but smart enough not to say anything.
Walt steps between us, his voice low. “Jack.”
I shake my head, walking toward the truck. “We’re done here.”
Walt falls in step beside me. “What’s with you and the EMT kid?”
“Nothing.”
Except for the fact that the kid annoys the crap out of me—young, yet thinks he knows everything. Confident to a fault. And trying to lighten the mood with his easy humor? Not the time or place.
“Didn’t sound like nothing.”
I toss the gear in the back, slamming the hatch. “He doesn’t get it.”
“Maybe not. Or maybe you’ve been more on edge lately.”
I don’t answer.
But he’s not wrong.
As we head back, Walt fills the silence. “You remember when we started? How we used to think we’d save everyone?”
I nod. Barely. It seems like forever ago.
“Now we just bring them home.”
That hits harder than I want it to.
Walt’s voice is quiet. “You ever think about what else there is, Jack? Outside of this?”
“Like what?”
He shrugs. “Like someone to come home to.”
My grip tightens on the wheel.
“Drop it, okay?”
“Roger that,” Walt says.