CHAPTER FOUR
HANK
“It is land! I knew it!”
I snap my eyes open, and the sun shines on the horizon, casting light across the water briefly before disappearing behind a rolling cloud. Elliot, dressed only in his pink briefs, is sitting on one of the sides, peering over the water, which stretches calmly in every direction. When I sit up, I see he’s right. There’s an island, as well as the dot of a ship in the distance.
We survived the storm.
“Thank god,” I say. My head pounds, and my lips are chapped.
Elliot turns to me. His eyes dance with something that’s part delirium, part delight. “We’re going to be okay!” He reaches across me and grabs a piece of driftwood, which he immediately uses to start paddling. “The ocean even gave me this oar! I think it’s a sign.”
I blink. My brain is barely working, but Elliot is full-speed ahead, and apparently convinced that the danger has passed. It reminds me of when I first found him on the cruise ship, calling out a cheery greeting as the waves crashed beneath him.
“I put our shirts out on the seat to dry. Although there’s not a lot of sunshine.”
“Uh, thanks.”
I stare at the island, gazing like it’s a miracle in the hazy air. When my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, I try to lick my lips, but it doesn’t help.
I look at the dirty water at the bottom of the raft. Elliot drank it and seems fine, but I quickly push the idea away, returning to my earlier reasoning. We’re nearly at the island, where there should be a fresh water source.
“It’s morning,” I say, processing this fact.
That means we spent the entire night at sea, riding out the storm.
Elliot is at the front of the raft, his slim muscles on display as he rows. In the morning light, I get a proper look at him. He’s got red nail polish and a few other small tattoos, like the alien head on his wrist. Elliot’s features are delicate, almost pretty, although his movements are more haphazard than graceful.
I’ve gotten myself stuck on a life raft with the most random person.
Mr. Peterson’s son, I remember, and my stomach turns. The challenge of returning Elliot safely to his father has become significantly more complicated.
I stand, one hand gripping the side of the raft.
“Here,” I tell him. “Let me take a turn.”
Elliot hands off the driftwood and has to climb over me to get to the other side of the raft, and I hold my breath, ignoring the brush of his nearly naked body over mine.
“If there are boats and an island, we’re probably close to civilization, right?” he asks.
“Possibly.”
Elliot pulls his damp white t-shirt on, but stays in his underwear as he sits.
I paddle, my arms sore, and fix my eyes on the land in the distance.
My wet clothes itch. And everything hurts.
“Could we have made it back to the Puget Sound, do you think?” he asks.
“The Salish Sea would make sense. Although there’s also a possibility that we’ve been washed out into the Pacific.”
As I wake and get a sense of myself, I become more aware of the miserable feelings. I’m dirty and morning-breathed. And I hate how stubble feels on my face.
Elliot squints. “That’s something, right?” he says, pointing off in the distance, ninety degrees away from our current destination. When I look, I might see something hazy on the horizon.
“Perhaps a mountain?” I ask, but shake my head quickly. “I think just an illusion of the clouds.”
