FORTY-FIVE
March 26, 2014.
The room was silent except for the steady hum of the ceiling fan and Beyoncé’s soft breathing under the blankets. The wall clock glowed 2:13 a.m., its green digits sharp in the dark.
Miranda rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling. Sleep wasn’t coming. Every time she shut her eyes, all she saw was Annalise’s stiff shoulders and Monica’s tearful silence. The competition was days away, and the fear of them never swimming again twisted in her chest.
She sat up, pulled her notebook from the nightstand, and absently started scribbling—arrows, question marks, half-baked phrases like “trigger? Water chemistry? Stress?”
Her pencil paused.
A memory surfaced, unexpected but sharp: Mr. Rowan, her high school biology teacher, waving a marker in front of the white
