by Seth Fishman
It’s black in here. There’s no shimmering light. No moon through opaque ice above. I’m in a well, another well. Except this time, the water isn’t cold; it’s exactly right. Like I’m swimming a race, though even that’s wrong. I feel as if the water buzzes against my skin and strengthens my arms, and I’m not tired at all. My eyes are open, and they don’t sting. My heart beats steady, the only sound I hear.
What’s the first thing you remember, your first memory?
I pause, floating in place. In nothingness. Because suddenly I remember. I remember the well. No more flashes or broken memories. I remember it all.
I didn’t fall in. I found the hole in the ground, I stared down its depth. My father stood in the driveway, and I heard him say to my mother, “I’m sorry. I have to be there. There’s nothing I can do.” She looked so sad, so broken. I have never remembered her as clearly as I do now. As if I were watching it all happen before my eyes. I can smell the pine. I can feel the chill in the air. I can see my mother in her blue dress, her hair up, her glasses hanging from a band around her neck. I want him to stay. It’s their anniversary, and he’s going to the Cave. He’s always at the Cave. My mother is sad, and so am I.
“Dad!” I cried.
I remember him looking over his shoulder at me. And then I jumped.
I almost choke at the memory, and am jolted back into place, confused—for the briefest of moments, I’m sure I’m back there, lost in the well. But no, I’m not lost anymore.
I swim on, my muscles so strong they tingle; I’m a dolphin bursting downward, and suddenly the darkness fades, a light appears at the edge of my vision, mimicking that of the black hole on the map, and moves closer and closer, until suddenly, inexplicably, I burst through.
I’m breathing air.
I tread water and stare in confusion, and I realize I’m on the surface, in a full lake of the well water, somewhere, down deep below the earth.
I’m dizzy and breathing so hard I almost suck the water into my lungs. A couple seconds later, Rob pops up, then Jo, their mouths agape in desperation and surprise. I grab their hands, try to calm them down, but they struggle, not used to the well, to the fear I have lived with all my life.
We three tread water and cast our eyes around the massive cavern we’re in. There are giant gates, beautiful, enormous, impossible. The first thing beyond the well, within the map. It’s my birthday. The room is lit, glowing bright enough that it might as well be daylight. I know why we’re here.
We’re here to find the source.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THANK YOU THE VERY MOST TO—
Kirby Kim, my agent and friend, without whom I’d never have applied to Westbrook.
Stacey Barney, my editor, strategist and advocate, for making this book her own.
My sister, Maya, for that whole thing we did; my brother, Daniel, for never saying uncle.
My nephews, Jonas and Lucas, to find in every bookstore.
My parents, for reading my writing since I was in the ninth grade.
John and Jean Thomas, for the loft (and your daughter).
Matt Block, the human dolphin, for your swimming lessons.
Téa Obreht and Kate Beaton, for their extracurricular awesome.
Ian Dalrymple and Julie Chang, the gatekeepers; Laura Bonner, the world, and Ashley Fox, the Wild West, for all you’ve done on my behalf.
My extraordinary copyeditors, Cindy Howle, Robert Farren, Chandra Wohleber, and designer Annie Ericsson, who gave me a shave and warned off orphans and stacks, I am entirely grateful.
Vanessa Han and Linda McCarthy, my brilliant cover designers, who hit the nail on the head with the book’s incredible face.
And Jennifer Besser, Jay Katsir, Katie Schorr, Eric Gross, Maria Braeckel, Dave Yankelewitz, UEA friends and faculty, Ed White, Liam Brockey, my companions and colleagues at the Gernert Company, my many incredibly talented clients for their teachings and all who have helped from the day after I couldn’t add anyone else to this list until forever.
