Bears Don't Swim

Maya's summer had been one giant bear of a disappointment. No camp. No beach house. No anything. Just stuck at her great-aunt's lake house in the middle of nowhere with her parents and their ridiculous obsession with wellness.

"Have you taken your **vitamin** D, sweetie?" her mom called from the kitchen, sounding like a broken record that played on repeat every single morning.

"Yes, Mom," Maya lied, scrolling through Instagram and watching everyone else live their best lives while she was practically dying of boredom in upstate New York. The only thing worse than being sixteen and stranded in the woods was being sixteen, stranded in the woods, and unable to swim.

Which was exactly why she was standing at the edge of the lake in her oversized t-shirt, watching her little brother splash around like he owned the place.

"Come on, Maya!" Jake yelled. "The water's literally perfect!"

Maya crossed her arms. "Literally the opposite."

Her dad appeared beside her, holding a bright orange swim noodle like it was some kind of peace offering. "You know, you're going to college next year. You can't be the only person on campus who doesn't know how to **swim**."

"Watch me," Maya muttered, but something about his words hit different. College. Independence. All the things she'd been waiting for, suddenly mixed with this thing she'd been avoiding forever.

That night, Maya couldn't sleep. She crept down to the dock, phone flashlight cutting through the darkness like a lightsaber. The lake was black glass, reflecting stars like spilled glitter. She sat there for twenty minutes, just breathing, until she heard it.

Twigs snapping. Something heavy moving through the woods.

Maya's heart jumped into her throat. A **bear**. A literal freaking bear. She'd seen the signs – BEAR AREA, SECURE FOOD TRASH – but somehow she'd never actually processed that BEARS were real things that existed in real life, not just things that happened in movies or to other people.

The bear emerged from between the trees, massive and majestic and completely unfazed by her presence. It moved toward the water like it owned everything, like its entire existence was one long flex of pure confidence.

And then the bear swam.

Just like that, without overthinking it or worrying about looking dumb or who was watching, this enormous creature glided into the water like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Maya watched until the bear disappeared into the darkness, and something shifted inside her. If a freaking bear could just go for it, what was she so afraid of?

The next morning, when her mom asked about vitamins, Maya actually took them. When Jake dragged her to the dock, she didn't make excuses. She waded into the water, chest tight, hands shaking, and she didn't stop until her feet couldn't touch bottom.

She doggy-paddled. She looked ridiculous. But she did it.

"You're doing it!" Jake yelled.

Maya grinned, water dripping from her hair. "Yeah," she said. "Yeah, I am."

Somewhere in those woods, a bear was probably laughing at her terrible form. But Maya didn't care. She was too busy finally figuring out how to keep her head above water.