“Kid?” Otter asks.
“Stop the car. Please.”
“Pull over,” Bear says. “Now.” He reaches back and squeezes my knee. “Breathe,” he tells me. “Just breathe. You got this, Kid. You know this. In and out. In and out.”
“I can’t,” I tell him. “It hurts.”
I claw at the door as soon as the car stops. I open it and am hit with a wave of sea air, salty and sharp. The rain has lessened—now more mist than anything else. But I can’t see, it’s like I’m blind. I push away from the car, and the only thing I hear aside from the ocean is Bear saying, “Stay here,” and then he’s lost to the waves.
No. I am not like this. I am better than this. I am more than this.
Panic disorder, it says, sounding eerily like Eddie, my former therapist. An anxiety disorder characterized by recurring severe panic attacks. In other words, you’re fucking crazy.
I stumble down a hill, clumps of sand sticking to my pants. Wind blows through the sea grass, a sound so familiar from my childhood that I almost scream.
I am better than this.
Think, Tyson. Think. You know this.
I can’t.
You can.
No. There’s an earthquake.
There is no earthquake.
The ocean. It’s here. It’s angry.
It’s not.
It is. It is.
It’s not. It’s calm. The tide is out. The waves are low. The saltwater brushes against your feet. Everything is right. The ground does not move.
It will shift apart. It will pull me down.
No, it won’t. It tugs on your toes, that’s it. You take in a deep breath. What do you smell?
Salt. Seaweed. Brine.
What do you hear?
Rain. Birds. Fucking seagulls.
That’s right. Fucking seagulls. What do you feel?
Rain. Sand. Water.
And me. Do you feel me?
“Yes,” I whisper. “Your arm.”
“Where?” Bear asks, his voice breaking through the haze.
“On my shoulder.”
“Because I’m here.”