I don’t remember the moment we hit, not really. One second I was in the raft, feet wedged, hands tight on the paddle, and the next—a crack, like the world split open—and I was upside down. The tree had come out of nowhere, a half-submerged ghost limb, slick and waiting. We slammed it broadside. The raft bucked like a scared horse, and I remember the sound of nylon scraping bark right before we flipped.

I went over backwards, like someone had grabbed my shoulders and yanked. Cold water swallowed me. It wasn’t just wet—it was a force, a grip, a thousand fingers pulling at my limbs. For a second, the world was bubbles and pressure and the roar of current, like I’d fallen into a washing machine made by God. I couldn’t tell which way was up. I didn’t think. I just kicked, clawed, found the surface, and gulped air.

The raft was gone. It floated ahead of us like a traitor, spinning out of control, caught in the faster vein of the river. I yelled—maybe a name, maybe nothing—but it came out like a cough. My lungs burned. Someone else popped up nearby, eyes wide, mouth working, but the current tugged us apart before I could say anything.

Instinct took over. Let the boat go. Get out of the current. I don’t even remember making the decision. I just swam, or let myself drift toward the slack water near the edge. I slammed into something hard—rock or branch—and used it. Pulled myself halfway up, chest heaving, river trying to tug me back. I looked downriver. The raft was a bright, stupid speck, caught in an eddy, spinning.

I don’t remember how long I stayed there. Just that I was alive. Cold. Shaking. And I knew something in me had flipped, too—something that wouldn’t go back right again. Not for a while.