ACT I

I drowned once. The memory of it, like a Polaroid, is fuzzy around the edges, fading where it should hold steady. My mother considered my drowning a version of a baptism, says I was chosen and that all life explodes through water first.

I stared at my church’s pool, its surface like glass. I jumped, crashing through the water, attempting what I thought was swimming. My arms cut through the blue, and I could hear my church-mates. Their laughter flittered like birds fitting at the edges of my hearing, secure in their noise, their splashes. Some of my peers sat on the edge of the pool reluctant to get in, towels wrapped tight, meanwhile others drifted in the shallows.

The air was thick with BBQ vapor, and while wading through the water, the vapor clung to my nostrils, sharp and sweet from seasonings. The grill shot smoke up in spirals, and a fat catfish, caught by Pastor Scott last weekend, simmered, its skin blistering and blackening. Ninety-five pounds of fish. The sea creature looked big enough to swallow a puppy, looking like something ancient and misplaced, dragged up from an underworld we only brush against.

My journey to the deep end felt slow. All the children on that side were gliding through the water. Their legs kicked in unison, arms slicing. Watching them, it was hard not to think of grace—pure, effortless elegance, as if each child was moving according to some unwritten choreography.

In the middle of the pool, Pastor Scott was orchestrating water games, his laughter bouncing off the water’s surface, surrounded by children. They surrounded him like planets orbiting their sun. I wanted to be there. I moved forward, one step at a time. The water rose against my legs, my stomach, my chest. Inch by inch, I stomped closer to the group, but something shifted. The floor beneath me disappeared. I extended my toes downward, searching for solid ground, but there was nothing.

The panic came, slow at first, like a thought you can’t quite grasp, but then, it hit me all at once—an undeniable weight dragging me down. I plunged without warning. It was the way of water to snatch things, to pull them into itself, but I fought, my mouth open in a silent gasp, but only more water came in, filling my lungs.

The world around me blurred and twisted. My vision dimmed. Everything went dark, and in the darkness, there was nothing—only the absence of air, the absence of sound, the absence of light.

I woke up on the cement by the pool, my body pruned, my skin cold against the hard surface. Faces hovered over me, eyes wide, curious, like I was something strange that had washed up from the deep—a beached whale gasping. I’m sure they thought I had died. The water still clung to me, each droplet catching the sun, but no one said anything. They just stared, frozen, and then, my mother cut through the crowd like she always did, a force you couldn’t ignore. Her voice actually reached me before her body did.

“I heard you calling for help,” she said. Her eyes searched mine, as if she knew something I didn’t. Maybe she had heard my voice, maybe not, but it felt real in that moment, like her words were the only tether I had to the world existing outside the deep water.

ACT II

Later, when the sky was orange and purple, and the day was settling into night, fireflies came out. Tiny, flickering stars, low to the ground, just above the grass, blinking on and off like they were whispering secrets to the lawn.

A towel hung loose around my shoulders, still pretty damp, but at that moment it felt more like a cape, something that could make me invisible if I wrapped it tight enough. The bullfrogs on the other side of the hill groaned. I sat with a few kids, none of them talking to me. Some of us watched the fireflies, but I could feel the others, their eyes on me, parents and kids alike, glancing over when they thought I wasn’t paying attention.

Mrs.Chiang walked over to me, the sequins on her dress sparkling in the fading light. The forty-year- old asian woman looked like she belonged somewhere else—someplace fancier, with candles and champagne and fancy art. She crouched beside me, her sequins catching the last rays of the sun. Her feet were bare, caked in dirt from walking through the grass, but her toenails were painted dark blue, as if the dirt didn’t matter.

I could smell the wine on her before she spoke, a sharp, sweet scent that made me think of adults whispering things they thought kids couldn’t understand. “You almost drowned,” she said, her voice soft but heavy, like it wasn’t a question, just a fact.

I looked around, half-expecting my mom to appear again, but she wasn’t there with me. I nodded, unsure of what to say, unsure if I had really drowned or just slipped into something. The fireflies blinked nearby, and the night was almost here. “Yes, ma’am,” I whispered.

Mrs.Chiang didn’t blink. “Did your mom tell you how you got out of the water?” Her breath still smelled of wine, soft and ripe. “An angel saved you,” Mrs. Chiang said, as simple as if she was telling me the sky was blue.

I wanted to ask what the angel looked like, but I stayed quiet. My mother hadn’t mentioned angels, only that she heard me calling. But I nodded anyway, because Mrs. Chiang had the kind of voice that made you believe things, even when you didn’t understand them.

On Mondays, the Chiang family held Bible study for my brother and me in their living room. It was always at five, right when the best cartoons started, the ones all the other kids at school talked about on Tuesday. I’d sit there, feeling the hours drip slow, like honey that refused to fall. The clock above the TV seemed broken, its hands crawling across the numbers as if they were stuck in some web. Even when it was my turn to read scripture, my eyes would slip up, following the second hand, willing it to go faster. I’d pray for Mr. Chiang to finish early, maybe turn on the TV so we could watch cartoons, maybe even let us go.But Mr. Chiang never hurried his reading. He had knees that cracked like thunder every time he stood, loud as two cannons firing into a quiet room, and he moved slowly too, in this deliberate way. His long, thin nose jutted out like a question mark, unexpected pimples scattering across the bridge of it, down under his eyes, where they disappeared into his beard, like stars vanishing behind clouds. Their kids had long since left. Grown and gone, never to be seen at Bible study. It was just us, week after week, my brother and me, sitting on the couch smelling faintly of old leather and cedar.

The Chiangs were good people. Everyone in town said so. But with Mrs. Chiang—there was something else about her. She always seemed to have plans, a life existing just out of reach, shimmering beyond the edges of her smile. Even as she sat beside me then, barefoot and dirty, her sequins catching the last of the light, I knew she was thinking of someplace else, somewhere far from there, where angels weren’t needed, and time didn’t move so slow to rhyme of fireflies. Mrs.Chiang always seemed ready to leave, as if she had one foot already out the door, heading somewhere tropical—Jamaica or Barbados, places I’d only heard about in her casual, almost careless mentions.

The Chiangs lived right next to my parents. I’d overhear her conversations with my mom, eavesdropping from the other side of the kitchen wall, listening as Mrs.Chiang talked about the trips her and her husband were planning: the beaches and the sunshine, as if our small, cul-de-sac didn’t quite measure up. Who could blame her?

Mr. Chiang was different. He stayed grounded, a man who had completed his mission. As Mrs. Chiang often said, her husband accomplished his fatherly duties, raising their kids, fulfilling his role as a deacon at church.

While the rest of us gathered for the party, Mr.Chiang was out in the field, preparing to light the bonfire. I remember the distant whoosh of it catching fire, the sound like a sharp breath inhaled by the earth, and then, a sudden burst of light, shooting up into the sky, a pillar of flame that cracked the night open. Mrs. Chiang twisted her head toward the fiery pillar, her brow furrowed, confusion settling on her face. For a moment, she seemed to forget I was there, her eyes fixed on the growing blaze. But then, as if pulled back into the moment, she turned her attention back to me, her hand unsteady, a little too heavy on my back. I could feel her trying to focus, but her mind was somewhere else again, adrift in the wine or in whatever place she wished she could escape.

Night had officially fallen, and the bonfire grew brighter, stretching its flames into the dark. Mrs. Chiang stood up, but her balance faltered. She bumbled forward, her foot slipping in the mud. She cursed under her breath, a sound not meant for the churchgoing crowd, and she struggled to find her footing. I watched as she finally pulled herself up and, without a word, wandered off into the darkness, away from me, away from the fire. She walked into the darkness, her figure fading with each step, until she was swallowed completely by the night. The fire roared behind me, but Mrs. Chiang was gone, as if the darkness itself had opened up to claim her. And I sat there, wondering what waited for her out there, beyond where my eyes could reach.

ACT III

A man’s voice came from behind me. “Glad to see you're breathing,” he said, and before I could turn, a plate appeared in front of my face, its edges trembling in the fading light.

It was Pastor Scott. He smiled, holding out a large piece of the smoked fish. I remember when he first showed it to us. Its eyes, giant and black, shimmering like obsidian, but rimmed with gold—pyrite, fool’s gold, as if nature itself couldn’t decide if the fish was meant for the sea or a mantel. Even then, it looked ancient, its scales dull, heavy with a kind of silence that didn’t belong in our hands.

It was still breathing when the team tossed it on the grill, its body gasping against the heat. The air around it seemed to warp, the heat rising like invisible walls around the creature, closing in tighter and tighter and tighter. The fish squirmed on the grill, slow and desperate, its mouth opening wide, trying to pull in air, or maybe just a memory of water, the thing it was designed to love by God.

It found nothing, and yet, from somewhere deep inside, someplace that defied everything that was happening to it, the fish managed to muster enough strength to slap its tail against the grill—just once. One final gesture, as if to remind us all that it was still alive, still resisting, even as the flames began to devour it, and then it lay still.

I remember looking at the fish sprawled across the metal grate, and thinking about all the men, women, and children who had gathered that day, their faces glowing from the fire, laughing and talking like nothing extraordinary was happening. I wondered if that fish, so monstrous in its final breath, could really feed us all, and if its body could stretch far enough to fill our bellies, or if there would be nothing left but bones and heat and memory.

Pastor Scott gestured for me to stand and follow him toward the pool. The plate of fish was still in his hand. The full moon hung low, casting its reflection onto the water, turning the surface into a sheet of silver. As we neared, the bullfrogs, loud only moments before, fell into an unnatural silence, as if they too were holding their breath.

In the distance, I could still hear the echoes of the party—children giggling, the slurred laughter of adults—but by the pool, everything seemed muffled, like the night had devoured the noise. The moon’s eye watched us, unblinking, stern.

Pastor Scott lowered the plate in front of me, the steam from the fish curling upwards. He waited, his hands steady. On the plate, beside the smoked fish, lay thin, wavy noodles, glistening under a gravy that reminded me of something Thai, rich and fragrant. “Do you know why Christ’s symbol is a fish?” Pastor Scott asked, his voice low, like he was telling me something secret. Fireflies drifted across his face, their soft glow momentarily lighting up his features. I could see his eyes now—red, tired, as if something inside him was straining under the weight of the night. I shook my head, unsure of what to say.

He paused, looking down at the plate for a moment, then back up at the pool. “The fish symbol allowed early Christians to speak without words,” he said. “When they met strangers, one person would draw one-half of the outline of the fish on the ground or on a rock. If the stranger completed the drawing, they both knew they could share their faith without fear. It was called the ‘ichthus.’”

The word “ichthus” hung in the air, foreign, something half-remembered. The fireflies flickered again, their tiny lights blinking in and out of existence as Pastor Scott’s voice faded into the quiet. I stared at the pool, at the moon’s reflection wavering on the surface, and for a moment, I imagined drawing that half-fish in the mud, waiting for someone to finish it.

Pastor Scott’s voice came again, softer this time. “It’s always been like that,” he said, almost to himself. “A symbol that starts in one hand, waiting for the other to finish it.” He paused, and I could see his eyes moving across the surface of the pool, too. “Ichthus,” he said softly, as if savoring the word. “The Greek letters: Iota, Chi, Theta, Upsilon, and Sigma. In English, it means ‘Jesus Christ, Son of God, Savior.’ But to the early Christians, it was more than that. It was a way of surviving.”

What did he expect a child to do with that knowledge? Pastor Scott’s face, framed by the quiet glow of the fireflies, looked older now. I always thought he resembled the comedian Jeff Foxworthy, with his round face and thick mustache, though the lines around his eyes made him seem more tired than funny. He had a son once, Jake, who trouble seemed to follow like a shadow. People in the church whispered about it, though no one dared mention it to the pastor’s face.

Jake had joined the United States Army and died in Afghanistan. I remember hearing the news. My parents went to the funeral, left me behind with the Chiangs. When they returned, my mom sat down at the kitchen table and gave me a full report, the way she always did after church events. She told me the pastor hadn’t cried once. “Not a tear,” she said, as though it were something strange, something worth mentioning, and when my father asked how the pastor was doing, she said, “Not good.”

She paused then, her hands resting on the table. She looked at the oven like she was watching something bake. “But it was raining,” she added after a moment. “The rain washed everyone's tears away, so maybe it didn’t matter if Pastor Scott didn’t cry. The sky did.”

I sat there, imagining it—an open field, a casket, rain falling heavy and cold, erasing the tears from everyone’s faces, like the earth itself had stepped in to mourn. Maybe that was how Pastor Scott wanted it. Maybe some grief was too deep for tears, something only the rain could carry away.

Pastor Scott stood in silence for a while by the pool, his eyes lost in the reflection of the moon. I used to hear he was recovering from alcoholism. I’d heard the stories, how after Jake died, he drowned himself not in water, but in whiskey and cigarettes, a slow kind of sinking. Even then, as he stood beside me by the pool, I could smell it on him—whiskey, cigarettes—woven into his breath, his clothes, like something that never quite vanished.

His voice came out rough, scratchy, like gravel shifting underfoot. There was something almost thuggish about the way he spoke, as if his words were clipped and cut from harder moments. “My son Jake died ten years ago today.” The sentence landed like a stone in the still air between us. “Don’t be embarrassed about almost drowning, son. You still have breath.”

I stood there, my fingers tightening around the plate of fish, not sure what to say. Pastor Scott’s eyes dropped to the plate, his eyes moving over the charred flesh of the fish. Mosquitoes hovered in the air, cartwheeling through the night, their tiny wings buzzing like some unspoken warning. They landed on my arms, soft and sudden, their legs prickling my skin. I could feel them biting, but I didn’t move. The mosquitoes landed on the fish, too, their delicate bodies clinging to the sauce, wings fluttering as if caught between life and hunger. They stuck to the fish’s flesh like feathers. I watched them, watched how they fed, and wondered how much the fish had left to give.

Pastor Scott didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he did, but it didn’t matter. His eyes stayed on the fish, but his mind was elsewhere, somewhere deeper. Somewhere where the whiskey still burned, where the smoke never cleared.

My mother said an angel saved me from drowning, and I’ve never questioned her recollection of it. But I don’t question mine either. Instead, I keep both versions locked away in my mind, two parallel truths, unchallenged. The memory now is just an amulet, a small belief wrapped in time.

Yet, every so often, it comes back to life, flickering like a fragile flame, a moment resurrected not by my own will, but by the hands of others. Their stories attach to it, like mosquitoes, clinging to the surface of skin. Sometimes, I take the memory out, turning it over in my mind, wondering at the pieces that slip through the cracks of forgetting.

Little by little, breath by breath, those details vanish—images dissolving like they never existed. The disregarded, the unknown, the unacknowledged—they slip away without notice. And yet, this one remains. My mother’s voice steady as the pool water that swallowed me that day, and the force that spat me out.

My mother says I floated to the top, my body still, an angel guiding me to the edge. When I regained consciousness, gasping for air, my mother says I told her what I’d seen. I said a black figure with wings swept through the bottom of the pool, lifting me gently from beneath the depths. The figure, its wings so expansive they brushed against the pool walls, pushed me upward, cradling my small body in the cold water. It spoke to me—not with words, but with something I felt inside my chest—“Swim! You won’t drown if you swim!” I don’t remember telling her that, not really. But why would a child lie about something like that? Why would I, frightened and trembling, make up something so vivid, something that still lingers like a whisper in the back of my mind?