“Grew up visiting the other side of the island,” I say. “So yeah. This is the noise in my head when things are quiet.”
She smiles a little. The wind blows strands of hair across her cheek. My fingers itch to tuck them back. I keep them where they are.
The path narrows the further away from the houses that we get. Sawgrass leans in on both sides of the dock until we reach a space cleared. A live oak crouches ahead where perfection gives way to mud and water, its roots knuckled and twisted, branches cutting a lace of dark against the sky. The marsh opens past it in flat silver and black, the tide sliding in and out with a low whisper.
The moon hangs low behind thin clouds. Light spills over her face in washed-out blue. For a second she looks unreal. Fragile and fierce at the same time.
She slows as we reach the tree. Her fingers slip from mine.
It’s a tiny thing. It still hits like a punch.
I let her go. Her shoulders rise. Hold. Drop.
“You okay?” I ask.
She opens her eyes, still looking at the marsh surrounding us instead of me. “The others…they kept saying we were in the middle of nowhere, that it was hopeless,” she says. “Metal walls. No windows. Just…noise. After that first day, when I broke free for a few minutes, I had no idea if it was day or night until I escaped.”
My hand curls into a fist. Knuckles pop.
“That first day…when I woke up…I kept trying to make it make sense,” she goes on. “Count the screws. Count my breaths. Pretend I could hear something outside that told me where I was. I decided I was near the docks. Told myself if I got out, I could just… jump and run.”
Her voice thins, then steadies. She swallows.
“And then I got out.” Her fingers tighten on the rail. “And there was just water. Nothing. No lights. No shore. Just…the water. And the water was so far down.” She gestures at the marsh like it’s a ghost of that moment. “I’m terrified of heights. I’ve never told anyone that until that night.”
I step closer, slow enough she can shut me down if she wants. “You’re not out there now.”
“I know.”
She says it fast, automatic. Her body doesn’t buy it yet. The wind tugs her shirt against her spine. She shivers once, sharp and involuntary.
I’m done watching her shiver.
I reach behind my back and slide one of my knives from its sheath. The movement comes easy, my muscles doing what they’ve done a thousand times. The weight in my hand is familiar. Solid. Honest.
Her gaze drops to the blade as it catches a strip of moonlight. She doesn’t flinch. That shouldn’t wreck me. It does.
“What are you doing?” she asks, quiet.
“Making something make sense,” I say.
I move past her to the live oak and pick a spot in the bark at about my eye level. Anger hums under my skin—not at her. Never at her.
I’m angry at steel boxes and leather cuffs and the idea of anyone putting their hands on her and walking away.
I let that anger ride my arm. I draw back and drive the knife into the tree in one clean motion.
Steel bites wood with a dull, solid thunk. The handle vibrates once under my palm, then goes still. The blade stands there, buried to the hilt.
Phoenix startles. Not backward. Toward me. She spins, eyes wide, chest rising fast.
“Storm.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say. My voice comes out rough, like it was dragged over gravel. “You hear me?”
Her eyes flick from the knife to my face. Her pupils are blown wide in the low light.
“This,” I say, tapping the hilt with two fingers, “is me. Right here. On this island. On that ship. In a grocery store. In line at the DMV. Doesn’t matter where. I’m here for you.”
