That’s what Panic was all about: no fear. She could hear a distant rhythm, a faint drumming, and she let it move her through the water-without thought, without fear. The water was threaded with bodies, twisting and kicking, splashing, treading water-the jumpers, and the people who had joined their celebratory swim, sloshing into the quarry still clothed, carrying beer cans and joints. Fortunately, years of braving the creek and racing the quarry with Bishop had made Heather Nill a strong swimmer. Her denim shorts felt as though they’d been weighted with stones. The cold was thunderous, a buzzing rush through her body. She’d been planning to tell him she loved him tonight. Those eyes the long lashes, the mole under his right eyebrow. The sound of voices, of shouting and laughter, was immediately muted. THE WATER WAS SO COLD IT TOOK HEATHER’S BREATH away as she fought past the kids crowding the beach and standing in the shallows, waving towels and homemade signs, cheering and calling up to the remaining jumpers.
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