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 waved my partner Reyes over to film the table. As his camera light hit it, I saw the chairs were pushed in neat, but one fork was wet-shiny, like someone had just used it. I told myself the lake plays tricks. Then I noticed a fifth plate, smaller, set on the floor by the wall.

I grabbed the shiny fork to bag it as evidence. The second my glove closed on it, the water went ice-cold and the lake floor trembled. Reyes' light cut out. In the dark I felt a small hand, cold and certain, slip into my free hand and squeeze.

I yanked my hand free and dropped the fork. The cold vanished. Reyes' light flickered back on. We didn't speak, just swam for the surface as fast as our tanks allowed. Back on the boat, I peeled off my glove. Pressed into my palm was a small, perfect handprint, burned cold into the skin, that no doctor has ever been able to explain.