I grab the radio. “Copy that. Over.”
I don’t remember whether the water is safe now that the current has been disrupted, and the longer I sit perched on the boxes the more I start to unwind. Hands trembling, I pull my rebreather from my face, letting it sit on my chest.
I swallow, and the burn behind my eyes turns to tears.
No, not now, London.
I swipe at them.
How did I think I could do this?
So much can go wrong. We are constantly in harm’s way. The amount of therapy I’m going to need after this...
Boots wading through water snap me from my reverie.
I look down to see Miles reaching up for me.
His rebreather is missing. His helmet is on his head as he coaxes me down. “Come on, Tennison.”
I shake my head.
“Nope, I can’t.”
“It’s not high. Besides, I got you, remember.”
I close my eyes.
I know he does. It’s me I don’t trust.
“Now, London.” The low tone of his voice sends a jolt through me.
I open my eyes and hold his gaze.
Fine. Fucking fine. I slide over the boxes and pay no attention to the column of doomed microwaves as they topple to the floor.
Steady hands catch me under my arms as I slide down the world’s most precarious stack of goods.
My feet hit the watery cement a beat later.
“You’re okay,” Miles says, hauling me into his chest.
But I’m not.
I’m so far from okay. I thought I could do this, but I’m not brave enough, not fast enough, notsmartenough.
I pull from his hold and pluck up my rake. I’m stalking from the warehouse a moment later, with Hammond hot on my heels.
Back at 53, the yelling has been going on for ten minutes in the actual captain’s office, and the four of us sit upstairs in silence as Hammond, Schmidt, and Cap have it out over the morale and workings of our crew.
“Hope Cap sends the shithead packing,” Owens snarls, stirring her cup of coffee as she stares into the small brown whirlpool she’s creating.
“You’re not supposed to leave a crewmember behind. Two in, two out, right?” Davey says, his concerned gaze stuck on me, where it’s been since I left the warehouse, Hammond trailing me in a raging silence.
“Correct,” Sandy says, rising from the table to refill his coffee mug. Pouring his, he looks to me. “Another one, Tennison?”
“No thanks, had enough thrills for one shift.”
He huffs a small sound that pushes one side of his mouth up.
