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 knelt by the small plate on the floor. Scratched into the dried silt beside it was one word: STAY. My air gauge clicked in my ear. When I looked up, every chair at the table had been pulled out, facing me, though neither of us had touched them.

I bolted for the door. Behind me I heard chairs scraping, four of them dragging across the floor, following. I made it to open water and kicked hard for the surface, lungs burning. I broke through and screamed for the boat. Only when hands pulled me up did I see Reyes had never come out. He was still down there, and now there was one empty place at that table, waiting for me to come back.