Jamie’s head turns toward the sound. Finally he spots me and begins to swim.
I gather the drifting cable and wind it as best I can around my arm. Then I throw it hard. It goes wide, but at least it lands closer to him than he lies from me. He lunges toward it.
Working together, I haul him arm over arm toward me, while he kicks, speeding our progress. Soon, he scrabbles aboard, panting and shivering.
As soon as he’s able to speak again, he gasps, “We have to clear out. Once the boat sinks, the water will suck us under. Look for something we can use.”
From our vantage point, I spy bits of debris roiling about, along with a few people still bobbing around in their life belts. The collapsible has been pushed far to port, so far that it’s barely a fingernail on the horizon. The ocean is a moving stage of props that don’t belong: tablecloths, trays, broken posts. I point to a large piece of furniture. “There?”
“Good, let’s go.”
“But what if it’s not—”
“It’ll do. Smartly, now!”
We launch ourselves from the crow’s nest. The water seems to have warmed a few degrees, perhaps a gift from the falling smokestack, but still it stabs my skin with a thousand needles.
After an endless swim, we finally reach the raft, which turns out to be a chaise longue, of all things. Its cushions have floated away, leaving only its wooden platform and single raised end. We latch on to the foot of it and use it as a kickboard.
“Kick!” Jamie orders, though my legs are so stiff, I’m not sure I can bend my knees. “Kick, you goat.”
“Who you calling goat? You’re the goat.”
“No, you’re the goat. Stubborn as all get-out. Kick!”
“Pig trotter.”
“Cod belly.”
“Pigeon egg.”
“Stop wasting your breath,” he pants. His legs, which are longer and more powerful than mine, slow to meet my pace so we don’t go in circles.
A keening starts up, growing sharper and more frantic by the moment.
“Don’t look,” Jamie says. “Keep kicking, and don’t look.”
A vision of the shrewd-eyed Reverend Prigg, thundering on about how God saves the righteous, inserts itself into my head. But if that’s truly the case, why are those people—most lowly immigrants just like us—screaming so loud, I swear even the stars pale at the cry?
Another metallic shriek and corresponding crash sends out more waves. It must be the second smokestack, fallen just like the first. That means there are two left. Only two.
I close my eyes and focus on kicking.
There were four of us when I took my first breath—Mum,Ba, Jamie, and me. The number four sounds like death, but Ba roasted a pair of suckling pigs to celebrate our birth. After Mum got her first taste, she declared she’d bear Ba another set of twins just to have that special dish again. There were four, and now there are two.
Before the impact of the second smokestack finishes vibrating through my bones, another sound starts up, this one even more terrible. Metal screeches, accompanied by the clamor of wood, tile, glass, and steel, all being thrown together. It sounds as if a giant pair of hands has taken ahold of the ship and twisted her in the middle, slowly breaking her apart. Everything in me comes to a crashing halt—muscle, blood, breath.
With our cheeks pressed to the board, Jamie and I stare at each other in horror. For the first time, I notice that his cheek is smeared with something red, and a bump has appeared on the side of his head.
“Jamie, you’re bleeding.”
“Something hit me when that first smokestack went down. Don’t worry, I’ve been applying ice.”
“Not funny. You need medical attention.”
“I’ll be sure to call an ambulance as soon as I find the telephone.”
The lights flicker out, and I hear myself whimper. This time, they don’t turn back on.
