He doesn’t meet my eyes as he walks out of the wheelhouse, into the relentless rain. Overhead, the sky snarls as another bolt of lightning cracks down on the horizon. I wait until he’s out of earshot until I release the breath from my lungs — a great, rattling whoosh of air I’ve been holding for far too long.
Even if we make it out of this storm alive… we may wind up killing each other long before help arrives.
TWELVE
archer
Tommy is goingto fire me — that is, if he doesn’t strangle me first.
I wince, recalling the crunch of fiberglass against the seabed as I steered his beloved Ebenezer up onto the beach; the sound of splintering wood as I purposely ran us aground. I probably punched a dozen holes in the hull. I don’t look back at the pathetic sight of her keeled over in the shallows, slowly taking on water, as Jo and I cut a path inland, leaving the rocky shore and pounding waves behind.
There’s no point dwelling on it.
What’s done is done.
Alone, I might’ve left the boat on the flimsy day-mooring and risked the swim, even with my damaged hand slowing me down. But once I saw Jo’s face… once I realized how scared she was at the prospect of getting back into the water…
I couldn’t put her through that again.
In the choice between Josephine Valentine and a floating rust-bucket, I’d choose Jo every single time. Frankly, in the choice between Josephine Valentine and just about anything… I’d still choose her.
Not that there was a plethora of good choices at my disposal, or anything. Our last communication with the Coast Guard —“Just hang tight, we’ll be there when we can!”— didn’t inspire much confidence in a timely extraction, and the storm has only intensified since we made it to land. I’ve no doubt the Ebenezer would’ve ended up on the rocks regardless. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
Above us, a thick band of thunderheads rip apart the sky in savage strokes of light. Even here, beneath the shelter of sparse trees and scraggy bushes, the ground is slick with water from the deluge. I barely feel it anymore. My entire body is saturated — seawater and rain soaking into my clothes, sloshing around inside my boots. My skin is clammy with cold, my fingertips pruned and bloodless. A handful of steps away, Jo is shaking like a tambourine, borderline hypothermic. The chattering of her teeth is audible. We need to find dry ground before she freezes to death.
I glance around, trying to get my bearings. I’ve been to this island before — freshman year at Exeter Academy, our science class came by chartered ferry for a field trip. Officially, we were here to learn about local marine biology; unofficially, it was an excuse to spend a sunny spring afternoon away from the stuffy classroom. No one was particularly interested in actually learning anything — not even the teacher chaperones who’d tagged along to supervise.
The sole exception was, perhaps unsurprisingly, Josephine. Class Valedictorian, incorruptible nerd. While the rest of our classmates snapped selfies near the shipwrecked steamer decaying on the rocks, lounged on picnic blankets, and passed around smuggled joints in the ruins of the abandoned 1920s casino that sits atop the island, she dragged me down to the tidal pools on the opposite shore, determined to examine the unique ecosystems of each one.
Look at this, Archer!she commanded, crouched beside one of the larger pools, awe in her voice.A whole world exists in this tiny little puddle, with its own food chain and social hierarchy. Predators, prey. Life, death, decay. Isn’t that amazing?Her grin was brighter than the sun.
That warmth is long gone, now.
I shake off the memories as I push aside a wet branch, eyes scanning the overgrown ground. The foliage has grown thick in the summer heat, green and lush with new leaves. Small black crabs scuttle out of my path as I walk, their pebbled homes disturbed by my footfalls. It takes me a few minutes to find what I’m looking for — a set of rocky steps, embedded in the low hillside. Moss creeps across the stones, a living carpet.
“Over here,” I call over my shoulder to Jo. I have to shout to be heard over the rain. “I found the stairs.”
She’s a dozen feet away, searching a different stretch of bushes, but she turns at the sound of my voice. As she makes her way to me, she looks shaky and pale — her face slicked with rain, her feet swallowed by the spare set of boots I found for her in a cubby onboard, along with a translucent plastic poncho. It drapes her body like a shower curtain, offering meager water-resistance but little in the way of warmth. Her lips are blue; her eyes ringed by circles of deep exhaustion. Raindrops cling to her eyelashes like tears.
My throat goes tight as I look down into her upturned face. I’m bowled over by the urge to comfort her. I want to take her into my arms, to pull her close until the shivers stop. To hold her until the fear disappears from those sky-blue eyes.
Eyes that, at this moment, are fixed with sharp curiosity on my scarred right hand.
Shit.
In the numbing downpour, I didn’t feel the tendons spasming beneath the weight of the branch I’ve been holding aloft, nor did I notice when Jo’s attention shifted to the patchwork of scars left behind by my accident.
How much did she see?
I quickly release my grip, sending water droplets in all directions as the branch plummets. I tuck the damaged limb out of sight.
“Watch your step,” I tell her, turning my back on her inquisitive gaze as I start up the steps. “It’s slippery.”
There’s no railing, nothing at all to hold onto as we make our way up the embankment. The climb is steeper than I remember; the ascent slower in these conditions. But we can’t stay on the beach — the rising tide has made that an impossibility. Soon, the small strip of exposed shore will be swallowed entirely by frothing swells; the shattered remains of the Ebenezer along with it.
At the top of the steps lie the ruins of an old clubhouse, a decaying skeleton leftover from the island’s heyday, when rich vacationers used to flock here to drink and gamble away their summers. They should’ve known, on an island called Misery, the fun wasn’t destined to last. A sweeping fire in 1926 razed the whole resort to the ground, effectively putting a stop to the stream of money-touting tourists. The owners never rebuilt all they lost in that fire; what didn’t burn to ash was simply left to wither away in the elements.
After nearly a century, the once-glamorous casino has been reduced to a pile of rubble. Hope withers in my chest as I walk into the clearing, surveying our options for shelter. There’s not much left. No walls, no roof. Not a single dry spot to ride out the storm. I’m beginning to think we climbed all the way up here for nothing, when I feel a hand curl around my forearm. The unexpected touch sends a jolt through my system; stops me in my tracks like an electrical shock. I glance cautiously down at Jo’s fingers — small and slender and so very pale against my tan skin — afraid if I move too fast, they’ll disappear.