Beneath the scorching heat of the sun, a brother and sister’s skin glitters.
Beads of sweat cover their brows, released with each splash and dunk as they play in the water. Their trips to the lake were a rejuvenating escape from the dullness of childhood while away from classes for summer holiday.
“I don’t want this to end,” sister tells brother. She floats on her back, gazing at the cerulean drenched sky.
Brother looks back to the shoreline where their parents are talking to a man wearing a tan hat. “I think it’s about to.”
Father gathers their belongings.
It was time to leave.
. . .
“We can’t swim there anymore. Summer Thorn Lake is a private area for residents only like the tan hat said.” Father explained for the eleventh time in the days that followed. “We’ll plan a trip to the beach instead.”
The kids groan.
An hour-long drive to the beach sounded lousy. Why go so far when joy was waiting for them down the road? They swam in the lake other times without detection.
“Beach water is better than no water.” Father reminds them.
He flops on the couch in between his kids and points the remote at the television.
On the news, a preview of the local news opens with a grim flash briefing:
Local man dead after swimming in Summer Thorn Lake. A brain-eating amoeba is to blame. More at eleven.
“The beach sounds great, Dad!” the kids shout.