In Too Deep by Coert Voorhees

for the possibility that there could be nothing inside. The hinges protested, and the cover opened so slowly that I imagined a creaking noise. I cradled the box with my left forearm and pointed the headlamp inside.
    A single disk about the size of my palm was situated underneath a thin film of dust. I nudged it with the tip of my knife, and the disk flipped over and settled back down in slow motion, little tufts of sediment shooting out into the water like puffs of smoke. A flash caught the headlamp and danced against the lens of my mask.
    Gold. The disk was gold.
    With my knife resheathed, I picked it up and held it closer to the light. Even underwater I could tell how heavy it was. Some sort of design was etched into the gold—a rock formation, it looked like. The other side had another etching but a different design. Heads and tails, but what did they mean?
    I ran my thumb over the ridges and I couldn’t help but think of every other Pinedale student on spring break. They were sunbathing in Tahiti or skiing in Aspen, sure. They had everything in the world—the money, the famous parents, the designer whatever. But I was the one in this tiny little cavern over a hundred feet below the surface. I was the one holding the disk. Anyone who’d ever made fun of me could just go ahead and eat it.
    A high-pitched clanging sound brought me back—Wayo’s dive knife against his tank, no doubt. A signal for me to get my crazy little gringa ass in gear. I went to put the disk back inside the box, but somehow the lid had fallen closed and become stuck. Because I had neither the hands nor the time to pry it back open with my knife, I slid the disk into the side pocket of my BC and zipped it closed.
    One last glance at the cross, which had served its purpose better than de la Torre could possibly have imagined, and I repeated the maneuver I’d used when squeezing in. BC off, hoses in one hand, tank pushed through, and me behind it. I held the box tight with my other hand, so it was a little more difficult this time, but I managed.
    Wayo pointed to his wrist, and I nodded. I handed him the empty box and put my equipment back on. It was time to get shallow.
    The mandatory safety stops were going to be the longest of my life. All I wanted was to kick triumphantly to the surface, but that would have been disastrous. If we didn’t take our safety stops, all the nitrogen that had built up in our blood at this depth would expand like carbonation in an open soda can, and we’d be left with the joys of severe joint pain, paralysis, or even death.
    We exited the Devil’s Throat, passing across the edge of a wall that dropped into sheer emptiness. I noticed a flash—something—up near the surface. Lights, more than one. There were other divers in the water! I turned to motion to Wayo, but he was no longer next to me, and then my next breath came with difficulty, as though I’d sucked the tank dry. That was impossible. I looked down at the gauge for clarification—
    Suddenly something scratched down against my mask. A claw? A shark tail? Water flooded into my eyes. The mask knocked against my regulator. I still had no air. I whirled around to protect myself from whatever had attacked me, to ward off another blow, but none came. What was going on? I opened my eyes to the stinging blackness, in time to see my headlamp tumbling down into the dark void. Wayo’s light disappeared up, in the opposite direction. Where was he going? Had he been hit, too?
    I managed to put the mask back over my eyes, but it was still flooded, and my lungs were about to burst and my arms started tingling and I didn’t have the air to clear the mask. I reached for the manual inflation tube on my BC and took a breath. There wasn’t much in there. I tilted my head back and blew out through my nose, and the air pushed the water from my mask, so at least I could see again.
    I looked around for Wayo’s light, but I only saw the two lights from the divers above. No,