We were four friends. We went in as four friends. Only three of us remember the walk back. The fog on Lake Crescent doesn't roll in — it rises from the water like something exhaling. By midnight you can't see your own feet. Jake was the first to stop walking. He said he could hear breathing behind him. We told him it was the lake, the trees, the nothing that lives in places like that. He said: "Nothing doesn't breathe like that." We kept walking. Jake fell behind. We didn't notice for almost ten minutes — ten minutes is a long time in fog that thick. When we turned back he was standing at the waterline facing the lake, shoes off, knees in the water up to his shins. He didn't respond when we called his name. He didn't respond when Tyler grabbed his arm. He came back to himself slowly, like a lamp with a faulty connection. He never told us what he saw in the water. He sold his boat the following spring, moved inland. Won't say the name of the lake. Neither will I, actually. I've said enough.
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