CHAPTER ONE
—NOA
The storm is almost here.I feel it in the air, heavy as it coats my skin in that sticky kind of dampness. The sky has already started to darken, even though it’s barely past noon—which means we’re running out of time. As I look along the beach, the ocean churns, the waves rising in jagged bursts, thrashing against the shore in warning.
It’s true that living in Cape Hope—living in the Florida Everglades—isn’t like being anywhere else. Sure, it’s beautiful, even with the humidity settling into our bones. But it’s also a constant struggle to stay ahead of everything nature throws at us. Hurricanes, flooding, wildfires… tourists—it’s all part of the rhythm of this place.
Then again, there are also those perfect moments. Moments where everything feels suspended in time. On my days off, I’ll take a kayak out into the mangroves, letting the quiet settle around me. There the water is still, perfumed with the smell of salt and fresh mud. In those perfect moments, I can pretend that everything’s okay.
“Pretend” being the key word. Sooner or later, I’m interrupted by the distant roar of an engine from one of the tour boats or I see a helicopter heading toward the resort, and the illusion shatters. The line between us is drawn.
As the wind starts to whip around me on the sand, I glance at theGrand Augustus Resort perched high on the hill above the beach. There, the rich won’t have to lift a finger. No shutters to close, no sandbags to move. Instead, they’ll watch the storm roll in from the safety of their hurricane-proof windows, commenting on the danger and how lucky they are that theyhave peoplefor this kind of thing.
That’s us. We’re the people. We’re the ones out here protecting their livelihoods as much as our own.
“Hey, Noa, grab that line!” my best friend Shawn yells, her voice faint under the rising wind. Her long blond hair lashes at her face, her inner arms dotted with bruises from carrying in loose boat equipment. She pulls me back into the chaos of the approaching storm.
“Got it,” I say, jogging onto the dock to grab the rope for one of the rowboats so she can secure it to the dock. I’m already exhausted; we all are, but this is just what we do.
I look down to the other end of the dock and see my father balancing near the edge, the wooden slats swaying with the waves. His green rain slicker blows in the wind, his hat lost somewhere in the ocean. He’s barking orders at my friend Tech, trying to get the boats secured before the winds get worse.
Tech’s not wearing his glasses, blinking quickly in the blowing wind. He tightens down the ropes, winching the line closer to the dock. He moves along the edge methodically, stopping at each boat. His muscles flex with each pull, visible rope burns across his dark skin. Although Tech’s a pro, his movements are jerky. Panicked. The water’s rougher than we expected.
I hate this. I hate feeling so small, so helpless. Every storm is different, but they all feel the same in the end. We fight like hell to protect what’s ours, and the storm doesn’t care. It’s coming no matter how many lines we tie, no matter how many boats we pull up, no matter how many hours we spend running back and forth on the dock, soaking wet, bruised, and exhausted.
“Dad! You good?” I shout over the wind. I don’t know if he hears me. He’s working on the boat closest to open water. The small yacht belongs to one of the tourists, and it’s worth more than all the other boats combined.
My father winces when he grabs a fresh section of rope. His left hand is bleeding, his fingers slick with it, and I can’t tell if it’s from the ropes or if he cut himself on something sharp.
“Dad!” I try again, but my voice is swallowed by the rising winds. My heart is pounding wildly.
I know my father is tough. He’s been through worse. But right now he looks all alone, framed by a writhing ocean and ominous clouds. I wish my brother were here. Ellis was always the one who could keep his cool, the one who knew what to do without needing anyone to tell him. My whole world would be better if he were still here. But he’s not. He’s gone. And right now his absence is a gaping hole in my chest, an open wound.
The wind howls like something alive, tugging at the boats, shaking the dock. The first real raindrops start to fall, sharp as needles, and soak through my Surf Shack sweatshirt. I pull up my hood, but a wind gust forcefully pushes it back down.
The waves slam against the dock, lifting the boats higher and higher. We don’t have enough time. We have to move faster. I dash toward my father to help him.
“Dad, please—” I start, but then I see him stumble on the shaky dock, trying to retie a line. His left hand slips on the wet rope—his palm shredded.
Blood drips onto the dock, and for a split second, everything feels like it’s frozen. Yet, despite his horrific-looking injury, my father grabs the rope again, determined.
“Dad, stop,” I shout.
But he won’t. He’s still trying to do it all by himself.
Tech and Shawn run over to help, knowing that if we don’t get everything tied down now, we’re going to lose it all. And I’m overwhelmed—devastated at the thought.
I need my brother. The sudden anger at the thought gives me a boost of adrenaline. I grab the rope from my father’s hands.
“Dad, sit down!” I order. “You’re going to make it worse.”
He shakes his head in refusal and grabs another rope. He’s always been stubborn, pushing through pain and exhaustion. Pushing through death and disappearances.
The wind howls relentlessly, the sound jarring me. The boats rock violently, their lines straining and groaning against the pressure, and every gust of wind feels like it’s trying to rip the dock from its moorings. It’s all happening so fast.
Shawn pulls a tarp over one of the boats, but the wind rips it right out of her hands and out into the ocean. She curses, throwing up her arms in defeat.
Determined, I grab the last rope and try to secure it to the dock, but the waves are rising faster than I can work. The water washes over the dock, making the wood slick. We need to hurry or we could get knocked off and pulled out to sea. But if we don’t finish, if we don’t secure everything, it’ll be gone by the morning.
