Libby watched the boy in the deep end and knew he would not make it back. His arms slapped the water. His head dipped, rose, dipped again. She was thirteen, the only lifeguard on duty, and she wore the badge to prove it. Her job was to save every swimmer who reached the deep end of the town pool. She turned to grab the long rescue pole from its wall hooks. The hooks were empty. She spun to the storage bin. No ring buoy. No rope. No reaching hook. Someone had cleared the whole rack. The pool hall was quiet except for the boy's splashing and the hum of lights above the wide tiled basin. She was alone with him and no way to reach across ten feet of deep water. The boy went under. He came up choking. "Help!" he gasped. Then water filled his mouth. Libby's life jacket kept her afloat, but it slowed her down in the water. She could not tow him back if she tired too. She scanned the deck. A kickboard leaned by the lane markers. A coiled lane rope stretched across the surface, clipped to hooks on both walls. She grabbed the kickboard and ran to the rope. Her fingers tore at the clip until it snapped free. She pulled the whole lane rope loose, heavy and dripping, and dragged one end back toward the boy. "Grab this!" she shouted. She threw the loose end. It fell short. The boy sank lower. Only his hair showed now. Libby dropped the rope, clipped the kickboard to her chest strap, and dove. The cold hit her hard. She kicked past the shallow line and reached the spot where his hair had been. She pushed the kickboard down and felt it bump his shoulder. His hand shot up and clamped it. She hauled him toward the wall, kicking with everything she had. Her jacket held her up. The kickboard held him up. They crossed the deep end together, slow and clumsy, until her feet touched the slope. She shoved him onto the deck. He coughed up water and cried. She sat beside him, shaking, her badge dripping on the wet tile. When his breathing steadied, Libby stood and stared at the empty hooks along the wall. The pole, the ring buoy, the rope hook. All gone. Not misplaced. Someone had taken them and left the pool without a single rescue tool. She helped the boy to a bench and wrapped a towel around him. Then she walked the deck, checking every hook, every bin, every closet. Empty. Empty. Empty. Tomorrow the pool would open again, and more swimmers would come. If she wanted to save them, she had to find out who stripped the rescue rack bare, and get the equipment back before someone reached the deep end and no kickboard was close enough.