Dead Man's Float

The pool was empty at 2 AM, which was exactly why Eleanor came here. The underwater lights cast rippling blue shadows across the concrete walls, like the inside of some enormous aquarium where she was both observer and specimen.

Three weeks since the funeral. Three weeks since Marcus's text message—"I can't do this anymore"—arrived thirty minutes before she got the call about his heart attack. The timing had a cruel symmetry that kept her awake most nights.

A movement in the lounge chair. Eleanor flinched, then relaxed. Just the cat. A mangy orange tomcat that had taken up residence near the pool equipment, probably drawn by the warmth of the pumps. He stared at her with unblinking yellow eyes, as if judging her form.

"What?" she said aloud. "You think you can do better?"

The cat yawned, displaying rotting teeth.

Marcus would have laughed. Marcus had been the one who taught her to swim in the first place, back when they were both terrified junior associates who'd somehow ended up at the same firm. He'd bribed the night security guard at his apartment complex to let them in after hours. "If we're going to drown," he'd said, splashing water at her face, "we might as well learn to float first."

He'd been her friend, her competition, her unwilling co-conspirator in three different mergers where they'd both considered destroying each other but never quite pulled the trigger. The word "friend" felt too small for what they'd been. Too simple.

The cat jumped down from the chair and approached the pool's edge, dipping one paw experimentally into the water. Then another. Standing on its hind legs, it began to paddle—badly, clumsily, but with determination.

Eleanor watched, transfixed. She'd heard cats could swim, but she'd never actually seen one try. The orange fur plastered against its skeletal frame, the yellow eyes narrowed against the chlorine smell, the desperate thrashing toward nothing—

"Jesus," she said, reaching in. The cat scrambled into her arms, trembling, and immediately shook water all over her silk pajamas. It bit her hand, not hard, just enough to say: I didn't ask for your help.

"You and me both," she whispered, setting it on the concrete. The cat shook itself violently, then sat and began licking its shoulder with elaborate dignity.

Eleanor pulled herself out of the pool. Her phone buzzed on the lounge chair—Marcus's sister, probably. Or maybe the senior partner asking if she'd consider taking over Marcus's cases. As if.

The cat was watching her again. Not judging anymore. Just waiting.

"Fine," she said. "But you're buying dinner."

It followed her all the way to her car, keeping a respectful distance. As Eleanor started the engine, she realized her hands weren't shaking anymore. The pool, the friend, the cat—some nights, you got through. Some nights, you didn't drown. And that was enough.