The flame is a fingernail of blue. You lunge as if you could catch a story in your hands.

Mud has other plans. It takes you to mid-shin with a sound like a jar opening. Cold climbs. Your other foot finds nothing helpful. Panic is a bright animal in your chest. You remember, through the animal, Aunt Mara’s voice: If you stick, freeze first. Yanking makes holes.

You freeze. Rain needles your hood. The little flame dies without applause. Sky glimmers on the puddle instead, a fake twin. You are not drowning. You are stuck, which is a different kind of night, embarrassing and sharp.

Jonah is shouting your name from the boards like your name is a rope. It is not a rope. It is a location.

The marsh does not joke. It also does not hate you. It is wet plants and gravity. Your lantern, still in your fist, makes a circle on brown water that is not a path.

You can call and wait—voice, whistle, the ugly courage of staying put until someone with a board or a hook can haul you back.

You can also fight your way out in a scrabble of pride, get to wood shaking, and know Aunt Mara will hear every muddy detail because keepers hear everything eventually.