What the Water Takes

I went swimming in the lake at midnight, the water cold enough to make my lungs seize. David had left that morning—packed his things in those same cardboard boxes we'd used when we moved in together five years ago. No explosion, no final fight. Just a quiet extraction, like a tumor removed before it kills you.

The lake was black glass, broken only by my stroke. I'd read somewhere that drowning feels peaceful after the initial panic, that your lungs just... accept it. I wasn't there to drown, but the thought had visited me more than once since the diagnosis came back three weeks ago. Triple negative. Aggressive. The same word David had used to describe my career ambitions in 2019, before he learned to phrase it as "you're so driven."

A fox appeared on the shore, its coat burned orange against the darkness. We'd seen one our first weekend here, sprawled on this same dock while the August sun painted everything gold. David had said foxes mate for life. I'd believed him then. I'd believed a lot of things then.

The fox watched me, head tilted. Waiting.

Our dog, Buster, used to swim with me. Golden retriever, terrified of water but loved me enough to wade in up to his chest, shivering. David got him in the divorce, along with the house and the Volvo. I kept the lake house and the smaller dog, the invisible one that followed me from room to room.

The fox on the bank turned away, disappearing into the treeline with something clamped in its jaws. A mouse, maybe. Something small and alive that would never see morning. Nature's efficiency. No drama, no prolonged suffering. Just teeth and hunger and darkness.

I swam to the dock and pulled myself up, water streaming off me like I was being unmade. The chemo starts Tuesday. David sends encouragement texts now, exclamation marks softening everything he used to say with his whole body. I delete them without replying.

The air bit my wet skin. I stood there a long time, dripping onto weathered wood, while somewhere in the trees, the fox screamed—a sound like a woman laughing, or crying, or both.