CHAPTER 65: 65: THE STRANGER RETURNS VII

---

"I will save you with the power of friendship and also with my paws." Fizz puffed himself like a tiny heroic cushion. "Also I will shout for Gael and he will break down the door and be confused for the rest of his life."

A corner of John’s mouth tilted. "All right. We will try once. If it goes badly we stop and we do not speak of this again until next winter."

"Agreed."

Fizz’s ears perked in triumph. He zipped to the tub and patted the rim like a coach patting the ropes of a ring. "Champion enters from this side. No autographs please."

John stood. His legs felt heavier than the iron bars on the tool rack. He moved to the tub and sat on the rim. The wood was warm and smooth. Steam touched his chest. He drew a deep breath and held out his hands.

Fizz floated into his palms like a small warm coal and settled there with surprising weight for something that looked like a dandelion that had learned some manners. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to John’s wrist in a quiet, unshowy gesture that landed with more force than his jokes ever did.

"All right," Fizz said softly. "Let’s do it."

John braced his hands on the rim and lowered his feet into the water. Heat climbed his skin in a slow wave. His breath shortened, just a little. He made it long again on purpose. He could do that much. He looked at the wall, not at the water. He focused on facts. The tub was made of oak. The staves were bound with iron. A tiny knot in the wood near his left knee looked like an eye trying to wink.

"You are doing well," Fizz said.

His voice had turned steady and cool. "Imagine a pancake. A simple one. Round. Golden. Humble. Now imagine you stack a second pancake on the first. Now a third. We are making a stack. That stack is your calm. It is held together with honey. Nothing dramatic. Just pancakes." He paused as if listening to the shape of John’s breath.

"Good. Now your knees."

John slid forward. Water touched his kneecaps and wrapped them in heat. His hands tightened on the rim. His chest offered a warning knock. He breathed. "In. Four. Out. Four. Pancakes." He did not laugh. But the image gave his mind something simple to hold that was not memory.

Fizz continued in the same even tone. "Now imagine we stick a little flag on the top of the pancake tower. It says Victory Over Being Silly. The flag is tasteful. The font is elegant. The crowd goes wild, but quietly, because it is a library crowd."

John’s mouth moved. "You are ridiculous."

"It is a career. Calves and knees are fine. Now the thighs."

The word made John’s ribs take notice. He tightened his grip hard enough that the wood creaked. He paused and focused on feeling the heat on his shins, the weight of the little body in his hands, the smell of clean water and hot oak. He lowered another finger’s width.

His breath jumped. He stopped. He looked at Fizz. The small creature had his ears tilted and his eyes on John’s face in a way that meant he was not going to make a joke. Not until John did.

"You can step back," Fizz said. "There is no prize for speed. It is just the two of us. The tub is not a judge."

John set his jaw and counted. The jump passed. He went another finger’s width. The water reached his mid thigh. The world narrowed. He pulled his shoulders back and opened his throat on purpose. He forced a big slow breath. He forced another. He pictured a flag on a stack of pancakes because it was better than picturing a hand on his collar and a sky far away.

Fizz spoke in a tone like a weighted blanket. "I am here... your emotional support. Also I am very fluffy. If you drown me I will haunt you, but with affection."

John made a sound that might have been a laugh in another weather. "Not yet," he said.

"You are brave," Fizz said. "And very stubborn. These are useful traits when dealing with tubs."

"Another inch."

The heat folded over his lap. His lungs pulled tight on the first impulse and then relaxed because he ordered them to and they still obeyed him most of the time. He let go of one side of the rim and then took it again, just to prove to his body that choice still existed.

"The water is yours," Fizz said. "Not the other way around. You could vanish it with your doom ball if you wanted." He paused. "Please do not vanish it, like you did with my cute fur. My paws are comfortable."

John nodded once. He could feel sweat on his forehead even though the water was not that hot. He noticed it without shame. He had learned that sweat sometimes came when the mind was working hard and sometimes came when the body was remembering. Either way it meant effort.

Fizz tilted his head. "Chest next if you want it. If not we climb out and I declare victory because you did something you did not want to do."

John let his eyes rest on the far wall. The knot in the plank floor stared back. He had not put his chest under water since he was twelve. He knew that number as well as he knew the number of his breaths. If he stopped now he had still moved a boundary. That was true. But the thought of stopping made something stubborn in him lift its head. He had killed beasts in dark places. He had made a mana core inside his body out of pain and choice. He could put his ribs under warm water in a safe room while holding a friend.