Epilogue

“Timothy Binici, this is your first Olympics, you must be so excited.”

The boy is seventeen, tall and broad-chested, dark hair cut short, swimming cap and goggles in one hand. He lowers his head to speak carefully into the microphone. “Very.”

“Now I hear, and correct me if I’ve got this wrong, but I’ve been told you could swim before you could even walk? Is this true?”

“It is true. When I was a baby a fortune teller told my mother I’d drown when I was seven,” says Timmy. “So she got me into swimming pretty early.”

“That’s amazing!” cries the sports reporter. “And you obviously proved her wrong because you clearly did not drown when you were seven.”

“No, but when I was seven, I went on a school excursion and got knocked off a rock platform into the sea by a freak wave, fully dressed. I should have drowned. Most kids my age would have drowned. But I was a super-strong swimmer, so here I am.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what, shout-out to that fortune teller, Australia thanks you!”

—

“You’re welcome,” says Cherry Lockwood from her armchair in front of the television. “Now bring home the gold, Timmy.”

She is on her feet, both fists in the air, when he does.