The reservoir dropped forty feet that summer, and the old town of Hesper rose up out of the water at last. My crew got hired to map and catalogue the place before the floods came back in fall. On my first dive, my lamp swept across a kitchen. There it was: a table still set for four, the plates rinsed perfectly clean by the lake.

I surfaced early to tell our boss, Dunmore, about the table. He stood on the cracked lakebed staring at the water, not at me. "The Hesper records list nobody by that house," he said. "Town flooded in '61. No bodies were ever recovered." He wouldn't meet my eyes. "Get the crew out before dark."

I ignored Dunmore and dove again at dusk to get answers myself. The house was waiting. But this time the front door, which had hung open all day, was shut. Through the window I saw the table, now set for five, with one new plate sized for a grown man. My size.

I refused to go inside. I turned and kicked for the surface, but the lake had gone thick and heavy, like wet cement around my legs. Each kick pulled me down instead of up. The last thing my lamp showed was the front door opening below me, warm yellow light spilling out, and a small voice saying, "Dinner's getting cold."