by Amy L. Hull
Sam remembers the comfort of water: clean sluicing along her body as she swam, pattering of raindrops on her grandmother's portico roof, relaxing warmth of a post-run soak, hose spray in a water fight, shower spatter in her eyelashes as hands gripped her buttocks and arousal built.
That was before.
Before she emerged dripping wet after seeing Daniel immolated.
Before interminable marches home through puddles and mud, pain-wracked from torture.
Before she coughed up freezing ocean water under the Pacific.
Before she felt every cell liquefying inside her.
When she starts awake, her eyes sting with the absence of tears.