PATRICK SWIMS THROUGH the mountains. The eddies waver them. They’re the colour of oil slick. The light blushes his cheeks. He’s swimming breaststroke. It’s so cold he can’t feel his body. There are clouds in the water too. They pass across the surface quickly. Like a pop-up book the other mountains look unreal, folded up from the lake. He knows there’s a white beach far behind him, made of pale rocks. He’s swimming towards sheer cliffs. He won’t reach them. He will wake up with both shores an equal measure away. With the waking up, the realisation that he has sunk and drowned.

‘Sharks attack from below, Dad.’