“Jan . . . ,” he begins. “Don’t speak,” I say. My fingers have pressed the nail tip as far as it will go before drawing blood. If I slam the heel of my hand hard against the nailhead, it will go straight through the eardrum and the temporal bone of the skull into the brain. He may not know that, but his body senses it. Death is two inches away. His eyes are wide under the diving mask. He does not move. All my fear and horror have become his. His life is in my hands. I am Theseus, come to purge the labyrinth.
