The shoulder didn't click

Someone almost killed me this morning and didn't see me do it. Three feet between the jetski and my chest. I keep turning that number over like it's a measurement that means something. It doesn't mean anything. It means I rolled and came up gasping and an old man with a kelpie asked if I was alright and I said yeah and he walked on. That's the whole witness list.

The shoulder didn't click. I kept waiting for it, the whole swim back, waiting for the buckle crack under the chin, and it didn't come. I don't trust the quiet. I touched the spot four times getting out of the water like I was checking the door was locked. When it doesn't hurt I look for the hurt somewhere else and find it.

Rob asked if I was going to be all right for September. Then asked if I meant the shoulder. Then said and you. I didn't answer. The answer is the bag. The answer is ninety minutes without stopping. The answer is butterfly strips over a cut I didn't notice happening and hands that know what they're doing when my mouth doesn't.

Zoe sent angry faces and said she'd call me tomorrow. I stared at the emojis too long. She means something else by them. She means why is there always something. She means you could have died in that water and you would have posted it about the click that wasn't there.

I still haven't opened the Manila envelope. Lev's word, Voss's signature, and me pretending not to know where the kitchen knife is. Tonight the rain was loud enough that I almost opened it. Almost.