“Come back here, you hooligan!” Henry shook his fist in the air as he watched the fin slice through the water on a direct route away from the ship. “Lost another one.” He ran his fingers through his dark wavy hair and sighed.

This wasn’t where he wanted to be.  How had it ended up like this?  All those years he had dreamed of being first, and somehow, incredulously, he had ended up in second place.  All eyes were on the winner, on his tall form, his pale skin, his dark, glinting eyes; his teeth gleaming in the bright sunlight whenever he chanced to spread that false smile across his face.  Ryan was shocked that in the presence of this prize winner, the sky remained a deep Southern blue instead of turning to black from rolling thunderclouds.

It’s been three years since Kyle drowned in the river.  Every year since, the newspaper reminds us of the tragedy, warns us to stay away from the rising torrent of water that can rush us to our death.