I move up to the corner, where the lake becomes shallow, and drop to my knees. With my body drying out, the cushioning effect of my skin and muscle is depleted. The impact of my kneecaps on rock rattles my entire body. My entire skeleton.

As much as I don’t want to try this water, I know I’m out of options. Out of time.

On my hands and knees, I lean forward, reach down to scoop a handful of lake, and lift it to my mouth. I hesitate only an instant before parting my lips and drinking in the liquid.

Cool and crisp, the water tastes clean. That doesn’t mean there aren’t bacteria or viruses floating around in there, but at least it tastes like pure water.

As it flows over my tongue, down my throat, into my belly, it feels like icy rivulets. Lightning flashes of cool, refreshing, life-giving water. My stomach grumbles in protest, reminding me that it would like some food too. That will have to wait. I can survive for days, weeks even, without food.

For the love of Medusa, I don’t think water has ever tasted this good in my life. I scoop up handful after handful, guzzling it down like my energy drinks back home.

I’ve never felt so far from home. So far from everything I care about. Even knowing that some of the people I care about—Ursula, Sthenno, and, yes, Nick—are possibly here, in this realm with me, I feel a million miles away from them.

My sisters feel even farther away.

When I’ve drunk my fill and my stomach feels like it’s going to explode, like I might float away, I sit back on my heels. Hands on my knees, I close my eyes for a minute, reveling in the feeling of moisture on my tongue.

I can’t sit here for long. I need to get back on my feet, back on the path that might lead me to Nick. To answers about the missing Gorgons. And then—hopefully—home.

But for now, for right now, I could sit here and listen to the gently lapping water forever. I’m tired, beyond exhausted. I haven’t slept since I got here, and I’m sure my body and my brain would appreciate a quick nap. I can’t afford to wait, though.

Finally, after I feel that some of the water bloating my stomach has been absorbed into my body, I slowly open my eyes. I’m ready to push back to my feet, to head back to the river, make my way over the bridge, and keep walking.

Across the lake, about a third of the way around the shore from my location, is a light. I’m pretty certain I would have noticed a light when I first got here. Which means I’m also pretty certain it’s a late addition. Which means something—or someone—must have brought it there.

I jump to my feet, relieved to have my quick-healing reflexes back in working order, and take off toward the light. The glow is strong enough that I can see the ground in front of me more clearly. I can move faster than before. There’s one big rock outcropping between me and the light, and when I approach it, I realize I’ll either have to swim around it on the lake side or do some serious rock climbing to get over it.

I weigh my options. If I go into the lake, all my clothes—and what gear I do have—will get soaked. If I go with the rocks, I might not be able to find foot- and handholds to get me over. I’m without proper climbing gear and my boots aren’t exactly the most agile of footwear. I survey the rock face and find it almost perfectly smooth. From ground level I can’t even see how high the rock wall goes. It might go all the way to the ceiling for all I know.

“No way can I make it over,” I mutter.

Which means the lake is my only option.

If I have to get wet, I want to lessen the consequences as much as possible. I quickly strip down to my essentials and tie my boots up in the bundle of my clothes. Hopefully I can hold them out of the water, keeping them safe and dry.

With a tight grip on my things, I make my way to the water’s edge and slowly start to wade in. I knew the water was cold, but I had no idea how freezing it would feel to walk into it. Maybe it’s colder in this deeper end of the lake, or maybe my toes are just more sensitive than my hands. Either way, the shivers start before I’m even knee-deep.

As the water rises, I set the bundle on my head and try to stick close to the rock outcropping. The lakebed—all solid rock, of course—drops off quickly, and soon I can barely reach the bottom with my tiptoes. Jutting my chin up to keep my head and my bundle above water, I start to dog-paddle as I reach the end of the rock outcropping.

I pass the barrier and start swimming for the shore on the other side. I feel the first scrape of my toes on the rising bottom when something wraps around my ankle. I scream, but my shout turns into a gurgle as I get dragged under. Before I disappear beneath the surface, I heave my bundle as far toward the shore as I can, hoping to at least keep my clothes dry. With both arms free, I can concentrate on extricating my ankle from the iron grip of something that feels too much like a hand.

I dive under, reaching for my ankle. I wish I’d kept one of my daggers out instead of tying them both up with everything else in my bundle. I try to claw at whatever is pulling me, but the downward momentum and my natural buoyancy keep the hand just out of reach.

I feel the water pressure change as I’m dragged deeper and deeper. The lungful of air in my chest is running out of oxygen. Primal instinct starts forcing air out, trying to compel me to take another breath. The survival core of my brain doesn’t realize that there is no air out there, only water.

The last whoosh of air escapes. I’m out of time. And to think, moments ago I was worried about going days without water. Lack of oxygen will do the same trick in minutes.