Sunlight, cast forth from that fiery orb and scattered by hundreds of leaves from dozens of branches danced on the water like the shifting patterns of a kaleidoscope. Come July the water would be green with algae and thick as pea soup, but right now it was clear and black, the waterhole seemed like a bottomless pit, ready to hungrily devour all comers. The rope was old and frayed where it met the tire's edges, but it was still strong, and thicker than two of Rob's thumbs. The running was the worst part, the heaving, the fear. That moment when you took the last step, and the sudden realization of your own insanity, the madness that summer heat has laden upon your mind. And then, for a moment, you are flying through the sun-dappled glade. Free from the earth, free from the dirt, only the mud stains on the tire to remind you of home. The sky invites you, but try as you will, you must decline and plunge into water cold and clear.