How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop? He didn’t know why he always thought of that damn owl. Maybe too much TV as a kid. Dustin wished his mind would give it a rest, but no matter how much he begged, it wouldn’t stop. The kid across from him looked restless, which wasn’t a good sign since they had about eight more hours of desat before they reached the surface. They were in the home stretch, but it was a marathon, not a sprint and this kid was acting like he was already approaching the finish line.

  “You all good, Bernie?”

  His voice, normally a dull baritone, came out in a high-pitched squeak.

  “Yeah, all good. All good, Chief.”

  The answer was spoken in a comedic alto. Diving to two thousand feet required pumping yourself full of nitrogen. It also had the goofy side effect of making you sound like a cartoon chipmunk.

  Dustin looked down at his hands. They were enormous, almost the size of baseball gloves. He was a quarter Ojibwe. His grandmother had died young and he didn’t have any real connection to his Native American side. Still, once he’d started working on rigs, they’d figured him for something other than white and he’d eventually tell them. He was six-foot-two and weighed over two hundred pounds, and with his exaggerated mitts, people were often surprised that he was an accomplished underwater welder. It was like his high school baseball coach would say, “Hey, Big Chief, you know you got soft hands for a guy your size.” How the hell did a nickname stick with you across that many aspects of your life, from school to work? He hadn’t lived in Boise County for fifteen years, and they were still calling him, “Chief.” At least the big part was now implied.

  “What’s it supposed to feel like, Chief?”

  “What’s what supposed to feel like?”

  “You know… Desat?”

  The trip down was usually less than twenty-four hours, but coming back up could take days. A person needed time for all the nitrogen to slowly diffuse out of the body. Hence, desaturation. Go too fast and you’re asking for an embolism. This was the kid’s first saturation dive and he’d done pretty well, admirably even. The other two divers, veterans at twenty-five and twenty-seven years old, were in their bunks, sound asleep.

  Everything inside the dive boat was arranged in a U-shape, their entire living space the size of an Applebee’s booth. When people asked him what he did for work, Dustin usually told them he was an underwater astronaut, ‘cause that was the best way he could think of to describe it. When you see images of the international space station, you realize how cramped the conditions can be. He realized he’d never gotten around to answering the kid’s question.

  “Well, desat… You know, it hurts.”

  Dustin lifted his fists. Most divers only lasted five years. All it took was an injury or a close call and that was enough to scare them straight. He didn’t have any excuse for why he was still doing it at the ripe old age of thirty-five, but in truth, he had his reasons. Their names were Audrey and Macala and they deserved better than a double-wide trailer and the sound of their drunk neighbor cussing out his old lady. Right now they were with his mother. His wife was estranged. Got herself into all kinds of trouble with pills and the wrong type of people. He’d thought he was in love but he realized a little too late he was just infatuated. Two girls too late. But he didn’t regret it. There was a house up on High Ridge Road, had a view of the valley and everything. He loved that house. His girls would have their own rooms with more to spare. His credit was poor but he could buy it all cash. And he was close.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Like hurts how?” asked the kid.

  Dustin flexed his hands.

  “You can feel like, every part of your body, from your knees to your toes to your pinky finger — You can feel all that cartilage, you know, expanding. It’s like having a twenty-four hour case of arthritis. Glimpse of the future when you're eighty. But it’ll be over soon.”

  He thought he was reassuring him, but the kid looked kind of sick.

  “I just feel like I have a headache or something. Is that normal?”

  “Drink some water. You’re probably dehydrated.”

  “I have been drinking water.”

  “Okay. Well, just relax. It’s just a few more hours. I don’t know. If you’re tired, take a nap.”

  The kid’s leg bounced.

  “You think maybe we’re going a little too fast?”

  “Everything’s automated, Bernie. So…”

  “Yeah, but how can you be sure? Don’t these things malfunction sometimes?”

  “This is something like my twenty-fifth dive… I’ve never heard of the desat controls being off. Ever.”

  “Yeah, but.. What about the accident?”

  Dustin’s eyes flickered over to the hyperbaric chamber floating outside the dive boat. He’d never been a crier. He didn't know if it was getting older or having kids or something, but now he just wept sometimes. He’d watch a commercial for Statefarm and it’d show a family all smiling together and he’d just start bawling. Of course, he knew there was more to it than just age.

  All the divers were aware of the accident, but they didn’t know the how. And he wasn’t allowed to tell them. This led to a lot of speculation. The crew had even started conjuring up spirits. The Aussies onboard were especially fond of their Bunyip, some kind of mythological sea-dog or something. But Dustin had actually seen it. And he had his own name for it. He turned his attention back to the kid.

  “Yeah, there was. But, it wasn’t decompression sickness or anything.”

  “But you know what happened, right?”

  “Bernie, you don’t have the bends. You’re good. You’re all right.”

  “I thought you said the desat always went smoothly.”

  “I said the system was never off.”

  “So the system could be okay, but you could still get the bends?”

  Dustin glanced out at the chamber floating just outside the diving bell. A reminder of what happens when things go wrong. They were supposed to repair a harvester that had gone down. Should’ve been straightforward, but nothing ended up being routine about it. The guy’s name was Harris. That was his last name. Dustin couldn’t remember his first name, but that’s ‘cause nobody called him by it. He was a funny guy. Liked to play cards, crack a joke or two. From a thousand meters on down, no light penetrates the darkness. That moment when you leave the last bit of light behind, it’s almost imperceptible. You can’t see it happening, but you feel it. And you carry that feeling the rest of the time you’re down there. They’d been outside the diving bell working on the machine, using only their headlamps when it happened.

  “I don’t feel good, man.”

  “Trust me, you’re fine.”

  “No, man. I don’t think so. I think- I think maybe. I don’t know. My head hurts. I think maybe I’m…”

  “Just take a deep breath.”

  The kid was making Dustin antsy, which seemed easier to do these days. The other men were beginning to stir. Dustin looked out at the hyperbaric chamber. What they don’t tell you is when somebody dies that’s one of its uses. For however many days it takes to surface, it’s floating out there beside you. Dustin thought he could see Harris in there now.

  “What’s going on?”

  The men were coming to, alarmed. The kid was breathing heavily.

  “I think I’m going to die. I think I’m having an aneurysm.”

  Dustin swallowed the kid’s hand in his. The big man’s hands were soft, comforting. But it was as much to steady himself as the kid.

  “You’re going to be fine. Just count to three.”

  Dustin started counting.

  “One.”

  The kid’s breathing was worse.

  “Two.”

  One of the other guys pulled the brakes on the boat. The craft came to a stop with a sudden shudder. They would have to wait now or even dive back down. They’d have to make sure that the kid wasn’t actually desaturating too fast. It meant more hours, maybe another day.

  The kid’s breathing slowed.

  “Three.”

  As Dustin said it all he could picture was that damn owl taking the last bite out of the Tootsie Pop.