The next morning, two yellow school buses rolled through Oakdale before sunrise, packed with students half-asleep, earbuds in, duffel bags stuffed with towels and swimsuits. Marty slumped against the window as the bus drove toward Lava Hot Springs.

  Brad sprawled across two seats, a neck pillow wedged behind his head and one foot resting on Erik’s backpack.

  “Marty, you ready to nearly die?” Brad asked from the seat behind, stuffing a bag of trail mix into his hoodie pocket.

  “Define nearly,” Marty said, pulling his backpack closer.

  “I heard some kid cracked a rib tubing off the upper falls last year,” Erik offered, sipping an energy drink that had probably never been FDA approved.

  Seffie leaned forward across the aisle. “Urban legend. Probably just scraped his ego.”

  Brad pointed at her. “That’s you in like two hours—tossed out of your tube, clinging to a rock, screaming, ‘Save me, Marty!’”

  “I’ll save myself, thanks,” Seffie said, smirking.

  By mid-morning they spilled onto the banks of the Portneuf River, blinking at the bright sun. Lava wasn’t a lazy water-park float; it was two miles of frigid whitewater, jagged rocks waiting to shred tubes, and—everyone’s favorite dare—the upper falls.

  They launched. Brad wiped out immediately, chasing his tube downriver. Erik nearly followed, spinning backward through a chute. Seffie shrieked when Erik grabbed her tube and yanked her into the eddy, flipping her tube. She was under long enough to make Marty’s stomach drop, finally bursting back up clinging to her tube, soaked, breathless, and laughing.

  Marty went last, gripping hard, teeth chattering but grinning when he hit bottom still upright. By the takeout, they were laughing, already plotting another run.

  “This time,” Brad declared, “we hit the falls.”

  A few trips later they turned in their tubes, claimed a patch of grass on the north side of the Olympic pool and ate their sack lunches. Seffie lay back with her sunglasses on, earbuds in, sunbathing in quiet contentment. Erik was finishing a burrito with alarming speed, while Brad mimed cannonball techniques for an unimpressed group of nearby girls.

  That’s when Lukas showed up.

  He emerged from the pool complex like a model walking onto a set—shirtless, tan, and followed by his usual trio of hangers-on, two guys and a girl who looked like they belonged more in a magazine ad than at a school event. His designer swim trunks were unmistakable—probably a hundred bucks for the logo alone—and he wore the easy smirk of someone who’d never been told no.

  Marty saw him before the others did, but didn’t say anything. He was simply aware that the mood around them had shifted—the way birds go silent before a storm.

  Lukas didn’t immediately approach. He lingered by the snack shack, flirting with the girl handing out chili fries, then wandered over to the diving platforms, scanning the pool like he owned it.

  “Great,” Seffie muttered under her breath, taking out one earbud. “Here comes King Trashfire.”

  Erik followed her gaze. “Do you think he waited until there were enough people to watch?”

  “He wants a crowd,” Brad said, sitting up. “Always does.”

  Lukas climbed the stairs to the diving boards, stopping halfway to gesture down at someone—making sure they were filming him. He jumped and landed flawlessly with a couple flips or twists on the way down. He swam to the side of the pool and pulled himself up. Then his eyes locked onto Marty, and that smug grin widened.

  He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hey, Bergstrom!”

  The air seemed to go a little still. A few heads turned.

  “Think you’ve got the guts to hit the high dive, or do you just wanna catch some rays?”

  Marty’s jaw tightened. Brad began to rise beside him, but Marty was already on his feet. Something in him wouldn’t let this one slide—not today, not after everything. He didn’t look back at his friends as he walked toward the diving platforms, every step pushed forward by the knowledge of Seffie’s eyes on his back.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  The climb up the high dive was longer than he expected. His wet feet slapped against each aluminum step, the metal warming under the sun but still slick from all the kids before him. Below, the water sparkled like a mirror. The surface looked calm, but it wasn’t inviting—it looked far away.

  Halfway up, he heard Lukas laugh. “Don’t freeze now, hero.”

  Marty didn’t turn. He reached the top, heart hammering against his ribs. The wind was a little stronger up here. The platform swayed slightly under his weight, and he realized his legs were trembling.

  He bent his knees.

  Just jump.

  A shadow passed over him.

  He glanced up.

  Two dark shapes cut across the sky, circling directly above the platform.

  For half a second — just half — his eyes locked with one of them.

  And that was enough.

  His timing slipped. His legs locked. His body went rigid.

  He tried to correct midair.

  Too late.

  SMACK.

  The slap echoed across the pool like a gunshot.

  A collective wince swept the crowd. Someone let out a low whistle. Marty hit flat—chest first—sending up a plume of spray. He surfaced sideways, gasping and coughing, his face twisted in pain.

  “Marty!” Seffie was at the edge of the pool now, kneeling beside Erik. Brad stood a few steps back, stunned.

  A lifeguard blew a sharp whistle and dove in, reaching Marty quickly and guiding him to the side. He wasn’t drowning, but his chest was already blotchy red, and the way he clutched his side said the wind had been knocked clean out of him.

  Lukas just shook his head and turned away, checking to see if his friend was still filming.

  Back on the grass, Marty wrapped a towel around himself and laid down, trying to slow his breath. The world was too bright, too loud, and his chest throbbed like a drum.

  “You okay?” Seffie asked quietly, sitting beside him.

  He didn’t answer. Just stared up at the sky as the clouds overhead darkened—not just with weather, but with something else. Something stirring far beyond the mountains.

  The buses didn’t get back to Oakdale until nine that night. Marty was too sore to drive so he slouched into the passenger seat of his 4runner and tossed Seffie the keys. She lived just down the street and could drive them both home.

  She ground the gears a few times, but eventually they made it home.

  As they pulled into the driveway, Ingrid was waiting at the door. “Hey Mrs. Bergstrom,” Seffie smiled, “he’s okay, just a little sore from the bad landing. Maybe some bruises and stuff, but he’s in good hands with you.” She handed her the keys and turned to go.

  “Thank you, Josephine,” Ingrid called, and Seffie just gave a nonchalant wave as she walked down the street. A creak from across the street caught Marty’s mom’s attention, a screen door slammed shut. Ms. Halla stood behind the screen for a moment longer and then shut the door.

  Marty sat stiffly at the table, his ribs sore, his pride worse. The silence grated until he couldn’t stand it. It always seemed like when he’d had a bad day, he wanted answers—why his life was that of an outsider, why they couldn’t have stayed in the place where he was born. Norway on a farm, in the North.

  “Why are we here, Mom? Why Idaho? Why not Norway?” His words came fast, sharper than he meant.

  She didn’t look up. “Ole-Martin, not again—”

  “Because Dad died there?” he cut in.

  That made her flinch. For a second, she looked almost cornered. “Your father didn’t just die,” she said quietly. The words cost her something. “He was taken from us. Because he wouldn’t listen. And I can’t—won’t—say more.”

  Marty leaned forward, his voice hard. “So that’s it? You drag us halfway across the world, bury everything, and I’m just supposed to smile and fit in? Do you even know what it’s like to be the kid with the weird Norwegian name? Never fitting in, never in on the joke—just the punchline?”

  Her jaw tightened, but her voice trembled. “We came here to keep you safe. Hidden. Protected from...”

  “Hidden? From what?” Marty snapped. His fist hit the table before he realized he’d moved. The sound cracked through the kitchen. “From cold winters and long nights? I could’ve lived with that if it meant no Lukas, no jerks treating me like crap every day. Instead, we traded cold and dark for poor and uncool. And you, you work yourself to death for half the life we used to have.”

  The silence that followed was suffocating.

  Ingrid shoved back from the table. “Det er nok fra deg!” Her voice shook—not with anger, but with something deeper. Fear. Memory. “Go to bed.”

  Marty stood, chest heaving, throat raw. “We had a farm, Mom! A whole farm that was ours, not some crappy house in the suburbs of a forgotten Idaho hick town.”

  She looked down. For a heartbeat, Marty thought she might actually tell him more, but her shoulders turned away. His words had pinned her back there—back on the farm. Tears pooled at the corners of her eyes.

  “Just forget it.” He stormed down the hall, every step reverberating through the old house.

  Ingrid lowered herself into the chair again, staring at the empty space across from her. Her hands trembled in her lap. She turned on the TV, Fallon’s voice filling the room with empty noise.

  But the jokes didn’t land. The laughter blurred. She blinked, and instead of the glow of the TV, it was candlelight and the glow of the old cast-iron stove in her farmhouse kitchen, snow pressing at the windows.

  Her eyelids sagged. Fallon droned on, his guest’s face already forgotten. She fought it, but sleep came anyway.

  And when it did, it dragged her straight back to Alta.