It’s the smell that makes him falter. Chlorine. It’s supposed to keep things clean, to kill the germs hazardous to health. Instead, it resurrects the dead. Memories slide over his skin, fill his lungs, sting his eyes.
“Look! Someone’s freed Willy!”
“Tsunami! Everybody out!”
It’s the receptionist’s, “Sir?” that brings him back to the surface.
“Sorry,” he says. “One adult. Two children.”
(Originally posted at Flashpoints, A National Flash-Fiction Day project.)
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