I opened the clean door. The room was dry inside, actually dry, no water at all, like the lake refused to enter. A family of four sat on the bed, smiling, holding hands. The mother patted the empty space beside her and said, clear as anything underwater, "We saved your seat." The door swung shut behind me.

I chose the bare door instead. It opened onto a flooded nursery, toys floating in slow circles. On the far wall, names were scratched deep into the plaster, a list of everyone who had ever dived Hesper. The newest name, fresh and rust-red, was mine. I hadn't written it. Then the door behind me clicked locked, and the toys all turned to face me at once.