I spun around. In the shallow end, a tiny girl in a white T-shirt flailed wildly, her arms slapping at the water. Her head went under once, twice. For a moment, everyone froze.

Then Lucas dropped his pencil and dove straight in.

I remember the shock of seeing him, a boy who’d never been on the swim team, cut through the water with strong, sure strokes. He reached the girl just as she disappeared again, hooked his arm under hers, and kicked toward the ladder. The lifeguard was still blowing his whistle as Lucas hauled her onto the deck.

The girl coughed up water, sputtering and crying. A woman, pale with fear, rushed over and wrapped her arms around the child. People clapped, some shouted “hero!” but Lucas just stood there dripping, eyes wide. He looked at me, bewildered, as if to ask what had just happened.

Paramedics arrived, checked the girl, and declared she’d be fine. The woman tried to thank Lucas, but he kept shaking his head. “I just did what anyone would,” he murmured. Later, in the car, he sat silently, staring out the window. My heart swelled with pride, but also trembled. Watching your child risk himself does something to you.