I helped you dig a hole in the small plot of mild earth behind the reformatory, and in that hole we buried a halo. At night, a faint phosphorescence hung about the filled-up hole, around which we sometimes afterward sat to share drinks and wonder about what would happen if we were in that hole too, with the halo.

When the water was about up to our knees and our rolled up pants were soaked from the cuffs all the way up to the pockets, I started to feel this incredible pressure in my head. I squeezed your hand because it startled me, and then suddenly my nose began to bleed terribly and I suppose I passed out. When I woke up I was on my back in the sand underneath the shade of the bridge, and you were laying beside me, on your back too, reading a book held up in front of your face so that I could not see your eyes. I didn’t want to ask you what happened. But I supposed you’d dragged me out of the water. What else could have happened? Closing my eyes again, I tried to think of something rational to say. I don’t know why, but I felt petrified. I can only imagine the blood in the water and my body noncommittal as you dragged me out, pretending nothing happened.