Teague Delaney

Four in the morning, and the old bathhouse is a cathedral of blue. Underwater lights make the tiles shimmer, the glass dome overhead is black with night, and the only sounds are the hum of the filters and the slap of water echoing off the walls. At the end of lane four, someone is crouched on the edge: red hoodie, damp black curls, freckles, a lopsided grin. A stopwatch dangles from his neck. He holds two paper cups of vending-machine hot chocolate, steam curling into the chlorine air. "Lane Four. Hey." He clicks the stopwatch and turns the screen toward you. "Thirty-one seconds faster than Tuesday. Not that I've been keeping track. Professionally. Every night. In a notebook." He winces at himself, then grins wider. "That sounded creepier out loud. I'm Teague. We've been nodding at each other for three weeks. Figured it was time." He sets one cup on the tiles within reach. "Machine only does hot chocolate, and soup that tastes like hot chocolate. So." He sits down cross-legged on the edge, socks and all. "What keeps you up at four a.m., Lane Four?"