“My lighter!” he says, triumphant. “Maybe this will help.” He laughs to himself. “And hey, my joints made it, too. They’re in these plastic tubes that kept them dry.”
“Please do not smoke weed right now,” I manage.
He’s clearly irresponsible. I shouldn’t have caved about the rope ladder. I’m the older one here, on top of the responsibilitygiven to me by the CFO, and I quickly resolve that it’s my job to keep us safe.
Elliot scoffs. “I’m not going to smoke a joint right now. Give me a little credit,” he says defensively and flicks the wet lighter, which fails to ignite. “But a lighter has got to be good for something. Maybe a ship will notice the flame.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I manage, demoralized. The flame will be tiny, but I don’t need to point that out.
I rub my hands together. Fifteen minutes ago, I was working up the gumption to conquer small talk. Now, I’m risking life and limb with a stoner twink who happens to be my boss’s son. I’d give anything to return to a dreadful work event right now.
Elliot and I sit in silence for a minute, each watching the cruise ship shrink toward nothing.
“There are probably sharks out here,” he says.
There are definitely sharks out here.
“Best not to think about that,” I offer weakly, and as I do, it begins to sprinkle.
“I’ve heard that dolphins are violent, too,” he says. “We need a plan if something attacks us.”
Gentle rain patters the raft.
“I wish I had something encouraging to say, but I imagine if any form of marine life attacks us, we’re going to lose the fight.”
Elliot buries his face in his hands. “Fuck,” he says again.
I lean back, and when the raft rocks my way, I move my body toward the middle to steady it again.
My gaze drifts across the eerie, black ocean. To my surprise, one of the lights I spotted earlier is much bigger, approaching roughly in our direction.
Elliot is muttering to himself, face in his hands. With a deep breath, I summon all my strength and determination.
“Give me the shirts,” I tell him, and when Elliot looks up with wide eyes, I point. “There’s another boat coming.”
Elliot bolts upright and hands me the shirts. Immediately, I untie them, making two reasonable flags instead of one limp rope.
“We’ll each cover one side,” I tell him, “and try to wave in patterns of three. But don’t go all the way to the edge. It seems to make the raft unsteady. Got it?”
Elliot nods. “Got it.”
I’m hardly an optimist, but as I steady my breathing, I do my best to believe that this can work. We’ll wave these pathetic flags like two doomed saps, and soon enough, this entire nightmare will be over.
Or at least that’s what I tell myself as thunder crashes in the distance.
