I’m half-dreaming when a throat clears roughly, pulling me back from the precipice. His voice is uncharacteristically soft when he asks a question that makes my heartclench.
“Your name.” He pauses a beat. “What’s yourname?”
I keep my eyes closed, unable to look at him as I answer. The syllables feel strange on my tongue — like a secret I hadn’t realized I waskeeping.
“Violet.” My pulse pounds faster. “My name is VioletAnderson.”
He’s silent for so long, I don’t think he’s going to reciprocate. When he finally does, his voice isn’t full of scorn. It’s achingly sincere. Alarminglysincere.
“Violet,” he rasps softly, sending a shiver down my spine. “I’mBeck.”
Beck.
The name wraps around my mind, smooth as silk sheets, and I tumble mercifully intooblivion.
Chapter Seven
L A N D F A LL
Another day slipsby withoutfanfare.
I doze in short spurts, often jolting out of sleep at an unfamiliar sound: a pained moan from Ian, a particularly large swell crashing against the side of the raft, Beck sorting through his duffle bag and the emergency pack, taking stock of our limited supplies. The only sounds I want to hear — the whirring of helicopter blades, the rumble of a ship engine — never manifest. No salvation appears on the horizon, despite the constant vigil wekeep.
Trading shifts, Beck and I are rarely awake at the same time. Even when we are, we speak infrequently. Our conversations are limited to such scintillating topics ashow many more sips of water are in the canteenandis Ian still breathingandpass the sunscreen. I think we’re both afraid any further attempts at communication will devolve into another screamingmatch.
The truth is, we both made assumptions. We held trial and passed judgment before giving the benefit of the doubt. And now, having convicted each other without a shred of evidence besides our own snap judgments, having screamed and raged and mocked oneanother…
It’s difficult to go back. Hell, it’s difficult to look hisdirection.
Princess.
Asshole.
You still believe in fairytales.
You’re a fuckingrobot.
The barbs still slice and tear, embedded deep in the walls of my heart. I can see my own words reflected at me every time I catch his eyes. If I could take them back, Iwould.
I spend my waking hours by Ian’s side, stroking his damp hair and squeezing his hand with a reassurance I don’t feel. I do my best to soak up the blood around his wounds with a damp piece of gauze, wringing it out over the side until my hands are streaked withred.
When several large, pointed gray dorsal fins begin to stalk us through the water, I decide I don’t mind the sight of blood pooling in the bottom of the raft. Not if the alternative is a nine-foot long sea monster with rows of razor-sharp teeth tearing the inflatable into shreds and the limbs from ourbodies.
My heart hammers double-speed inside my chest the entire time the sharks trail us. They swim with a predatory, prehistoric aggression, circling like wolves hungry for blood. It’s a few endless hours before they finally slink out of sight, and even after they’re gone, I’m haunted by the knowledge that they’re out there. Lurking in the depths beneath us.Waiting.
The thought is enough to make me shiver in the intenseheat.
Hunger gnaws at my stomach lining, relentless and rumbling. Hours ago, Beck and I split one of the vacuum-sealed meal packets from the emergency kit — a paltry portion of granola that did little to tide me over. Blessed with a naturally fast metabolism, I’ve never been one to count calories or restrict my carb intake, never a fan of fad diets or juice cleanses, unlike so many of my friends on the cheerleading squad. Back home, I used to wake up an hour early each morning, so I’d have time to make a full breakfast before school. French toast, a frittata, an omelet, pancakes, you nameit.
Enjoy it while it lasts,Mom used to say, shaking her head at me over a bowl of plain bran cereal.After you turn thirty, I swear you can just glance at chocolate and gain fivepounds.
If she could only see me now — cursing the hearty appetite I’ve always prized. I’m so hungry I’d eat the glue off an envelope and award it a MichelinStar.
Still… ravenous or not, I can survive without food. Butwater?
That’s anotherstory.
The two cans of diet soda stashed in my backpack are gone, split between us sip by sip until they were sucked dry. Beck’s stainless water bottle is nearly empty now. A gulp, maybe two, is all that remains. It’s not enough to keep even one of us alive in this relentless heat, let alonethree.