“Adam,” his father sighed. Marci jumped a foot out of the water, and her splashdown sent watery ripples rebounding off the cavern walls.
Alan reached out for her and draped his arm around her shoulders. She huddled against his chest, slick cold naked skin goose-pimpled against his ribs. She smelled wonderful, like a fox. It felt wonderful, and solemn, to stand there nude, in the heart of his father, and let his secrets spill away.
Her breathing stilled again.
“Alan,” his father said.
“We want to understand, Father,” Alan whispered. “What am I?” It was the question he’d never asked. Now that he’d asked it, he felt like a fool: Surely his father knew, the mountain knew everything, had stood forever. He could have found out anytime he’d thought to ask.
“I don’t have the answer,” his father said. “There may be no answer. You may never know.”
Adam let go of Marci, let his arms fall to his sides.
“No,” he said. “No!” he shouted again, and the stillness was broken. The wind blew cold and hard, and he didn’t care. “NO!” he screamed, and Marci grabbed him and put her hand over his mouth. His ears roared with echoes, and they did not die down, but rather built atop one another, to a wall of noise that scared him.
She was crying now, scared and openmouthed sobs. She splashed him and water went up his nose and stung his eyes. The wind was colder now, cold enough to hurt, and he took her hand and sloshed recklessly for the shore. He spun up the flashlight and handed it to her, then yanked his clothes over his wet skin, glaring at the pool while she did the same.