With every step, my feet sink into the hot muck, and the murky, stagnant water seeps further into my socks. My lungs fill with the breezeless air as we push forward, alternating between sloshing and wading. The muddy bottom rises and drops beneath us. I faintly hear our counselor explain that the Everglades is commonly called the “River of Grass.” But this river moves so slowly that any motion at all is almost imperceptible. I’m lingering towards the back. I don’t want anyone behind me.

My left leg still aches from last night. They pulled my sheets out from under me while I was sleeping, and I fell from the top bunk, landing on the cold, linoleum floor of the cabin. A slight limp bothers me, but the water they splashed in my face might actually be refreshing now. I take a warm swig from my canteen and pretend it has the same effect.

The swamp is eerily quiet during the day. The animals know better than to be out in this heat. Fish splash here and there. A vulture circles in the distance. But everything is still. You can almost hear the creaking of the moss-laden cypress trees, as the sun saps the vapor from their waterlogged appendages and bakes the gnarled wood. The light reflects sharply off the water, and my eyes evade the glare, darting up towards a clearing on the bank ahead.

We make camp on platforms raised above the flood-prone mudflat. I try to pick an unassuming spot, not too close or too far, and I settle on one just as the sun is sinking behind the sawgrass prairie. Its blood orange glow ignites the buzz of mosquitoes as everyone seeks refuge in tents. The falling of night transforms the swamp, and I lie on the hard, wooden platform, motionless, dreaming of a time when I wasn’t exhausted and drowning in sweat.

I try to lose myself in sleep, but I awake to a hand over my mouth, and two more over my eyes. I rise and follow, unable to do much else, knowing that there’s no other way.

They slowly guide me out of the camp, down the bank, and we wade back into the river of grass. I try to track my position, but I’m too disoriented — blinded by two sweaty palms and deafened by the scream of a million crickets. The creatures of the night rage against its cruel heat. I am calm, feeling only the muck beneath my feet and the warm water lapping my waist.

My eyes are set free, but my first sight is the water, black as oil. I’m pulled by my hair and dunked several times, then punched in the abdomen. This goes on for quite some time. Eventually, they tire, and I lie still, only my neck remaining above the waterline. They stomp off, and I am alone. My breath ripples across the surface, and I let the water hold me.

There is no moon tonight, but an infinite sky shines brightly down on this alien world. Creatures brush, splash, scratch, scamper, caw, kick, flap, groan, and whisper. But the water is silent. I slowly navigate my weightless body over to an oak tree standing firmly by the shore. I curl up and allow its roots to engulf me. I’ll wait for daylight to find my way back.

In the middle of the serene water, what has the bumpy, irregular shape of a log rises up. The single amber eye of a young alligator reflects the starlight. It looks straight at me, but after a moment, glides away without a sound.

Everglade was originally published in The Yale Herald on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.