![]() This was one of the few concrete details she had of his youth, and it was a curious, poignant image: thin teenage Paul easing himself into the shallow dark, thrashing quietly along the shoreline until he could glide two strokes alone, three, four. She remembered that swimming was a different thing for him than it was for her he’d grown up poor and never learned to swim until he got to boot camp, practicing every night, he’d said, in a pond near Fort Dix. It had to be a little scary to count for anything. ![]() ![]() And while she’d never admit it to Paul, the relief of not striking anything-that moment of plunging into the water and feeling herself go down, down, unimpeded, the cold exploding past her face and neck and body until her own air pulled her up again- was part of the fun. What if you dove down and hit something and never came up, right here in front of your little girls?” “You didn’t know what was under the water there. An excerpt from The Longest Night (Nat’s first chapter) was featured on Literary Hub yesterday. ![]()
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