More deck lights flare to life, illuminating everything. Carter can see spray and foam flying through the beams. His mother is running behind the men—her hair and dress streaming behind her. She’s calling his name, and the wind is snatching her words and flinging them out to sea. She slips, falls hard on the wet deck as the ship tilts and turns sharply. The two men stagger violently sideways for a moment, fighting for balance.
When they reach him, one sets down his light and grabs Carter by the shoulders. The other shines his beam on them.
“Shit! Medic! We need medics!” he yells.
Another crew member—a woman in a white uniform—arrives. She calls for help on her radio.
“Are you okay, son?” one of the men asks.
Carter can’t speak. He turns toward Gramps as the crewman feels for a pulse at Gramps’s neck.
His mother reaches them. More searchlights sweep over the deck and across the water. An alarm begins clanging.
His mom drops to her knees beside him, right in the blood.
“Oh my God. Oh my God, what happened?” she cries, staring at Gramps. The female crew member tries to move her back.
“Give them some space. They need room for the EMTs.”
Carter sees now that his grandfather’s body is completely limp, his mouth agape, eyes open but pupils rolled back.
“No pulse,” one of the crew mutters. “Can’t find a pulse.”
“Where’s all the blood from?” the other asks. “I can’t see any wounds—are you okay, son? What’s your name?”
Carter still can’t talk. He has no idea how Gramps managed to catch his ankle and haul him back over the railing. It’s as though some hidden force—some magic or miracle—helped him.
A dull roaring starts in Carter’s brain as he stares at Gramps, and all the blood. Somewhere far, far away, beneath the chaos in his mind, he hears someone ask, “Who went overboard, son? What happened? Did you see who went over?”
More crew arrive and are peering over the railing, panning the water far below with big lights.
Poppy
Zero Hour
Poppy presses the elevator button. Patrick stands at her side as people mill about them—some coming from dinners or pubs or entertainment elsewhere on Deck 12. Others arriving for act two of Sorin’s show. All waiting to use the elevators.
She’s edgy as she glances up at the lights above the elevators. They show all the cars are far away. Tension mounts. The ship lists sharply and panic bites. She hammers the button again.
Patrick says, “I’ve been meaning to tell you—you look lovely tonight.”
“What?” She’s yanked out of her thoughts for a second, and stares at him dumbfounded.
“The emerald-green sparkles.” He makes wavy jazz hands and grins.
“You’re drunk.”
He chuckles. “Probably. Still—you look nice.”
“It’s a funny thing to say, Patrick.” She glances at the elevator lights again, warmth rising in her cheeks. She can’t meet his gaze, doesn’t know where to look. No one tells Poppy she looks “nice.” She doesn’t know what to do with it.
“Why’s it a funny thing to say?”
“Because—I don’t know. Sorin just said the most horrible things about me. How can some disgusting harpy look ‘nice’?”
He bursts out laughing. It makes people stare. Her face goes hotter.
She turns to him. “What do you want?”
