It was fifteen past six, meaning that there was a padlock on the fenced-in entrance of Hawkins Pool. Remnants of summer dwellers bobbed on the surface tension of the pool; discarded beach balls, pool noodles, dive toys– Fun playthings for the sunscreen lathered gremlins during the daytime, but by evening, they antagonized Heather as she veered the pool skimmer.
‘C’mon, *c’mon*’, She insists, attempting to scoop up a set of rings into the mesh net. It was a futile effort, though, as they floated aimlessly wherever the pool's current was jetting, which was further than Heather dared to reach. The chance of diving in for a kid gurgling chlorine was already above her pay grade, never mind a bunch of plastic.
It was a unanimous decision on her part.
She grips the skimmer like it’s the thing's fault, turning on her rubber sole to seek out the next best thing in her arsenal. The girl makes for the bathrooms, unapologetically barging past the men's door, seeking a pair of arms much longer than hers and perhaps, a bit of disgruntled reluctance. She props the skimmer against a sink, proceeding towards the sputter of flowing water.
*“Billy, sweetie,”* Heather jingles lightheartedly, mingling in between the stalls to let him gather himself. She follows up promptly: “I need help with the pool cover, please. You know I don’t like touching the water.” Typically, he greets her with something snarky like, ‘Can’t lather my dick with you watching,’ or simply, a *‘No’*.
But this time, a beat passes.
Which is…fine. But then again, not entirely. Inquisitively, her mind recalls back to that afternoon. She had sauntered past Billy, where he seemed to be trudging forward in this stiff, mechanically way. Teasingly, Heather had thrown a ‘Looking good, Billy’ over her shoulder. The thing was– he looked *far* from his usual homeostasis. About as clammy as a bar of soap, in fact.
The running water makes the silence all the more deafening, sobering her– Not only that, but her sixth sense urges Heather to risk getting flashed. She resorts to saying something drastic, something insane like, “I’m gonna join you, ‘kay?”. Surely, that should elicit a reaction out of him, but it never comes, even as she slinks closer to his stall and–
*Billy* is on the *floor*. He has all four limbs huddled to himself, still as a statue. It startles Heather to the point where she crouches to his level, syrupy eyes dilated and brows knitted tight– The water laps at her knees and it’s *freezing*, yet another insinuation that told her this wasn't the norm:
'Hun, are you alright? Why in the world are you on the tiles? That can’t feel good.'
