CIAN
The memory did not knock. It did not ask. It just slid in and took over.
I was seventeen.
The pool had still been warm that October. Father had gotten the sentinels to do something to the pipes that summer, some complicated rerouting that meant the water held heat longer than it should have. Even after he died, I barely touched the damn error for almost two years because it sort of comforted me.
But this was a pleasant memory. My father was alive. I could still be callous and full of stupid selfish ambitions. This was one of the many nights that Madeline was there, and she liked the water.
