Chapter Text
An exhaustion so deep it felt like a sickness had replaced the frenzied energy of their escape. John B kept a hand on the tiller, his body aching, the drone of the outboard a constant tremor in his bones. Just off the water, the sun was a blinding glare that scoured all color from the world, turning the sea to a sheet of hammered gray. Daylight was a threat, its harsh visibility leaving them completely exposed.
“Let me see your hand.”
John B looked up from the tiller. Sarah had moved from her post at the bow and was kneeling in front of him, her expression leaving no room for argument.
The pulsing heat in his knuckles made him hesitate. “It’s fine,” he mumbled.
“You’ve been flexing it every five minutes since we left,” she countered, her palm outstretched. “The salt water is making it worse. Let me clean it.”
He relented, and held it out to her. She unwrapped the gauze to reveal the damage: a deep, swollen gash, the skin surrounding it stretched and red. She worked with a calm focus, cleaning the cut with their antiseptic and a splash of clean water before wrapping it again, her knots neat and efficient. He watched her face, the way her brow furrowed in concentration.
“Thanks,” he murmured when she was done.
She nodded, her eyes lingering on the new dressing before she returned to her post at the bow, her gaze locked on the empty horizon.
An hour passed. The sun climbed higher, beating down on their exposed forms. The world dissolved into a shimmering haze of heat and water, the chugging of the outboard a monotonous constant. Then he felt it through the tiller—a subtle, uneven shudder. He told himself it was merely a change in the current, but the vibration worsened. A violent lurch ran through the boat, and the engine coughed.
He held his breath, every muscle tight, waiting for it to cut out. Then it caught once more, its familiar pattern resuming. The tension drained from his shoulders.
“What was that?” Sarah asked, turning to face him.
“Nothing,” he replied, trying to force a confidence he didn’t feel. “Probably just some water in the fuel line.”
The engine coughed again, more aggressively this time. It sputtered, the drone faltering, dropping in pitch. He worked the throttle, trying to feed it more gas, but the response was sluggish. It ran another ten seconds, then died with a final, metallic sigh.
The immediate quiet was enormous, broken only by the slap of water against the hull.
“Shit.” He scrambled to the stern, pulling the engine cover off. The motor was a greasy heart of wires and pistons. He stared at it, the task ahead feeling impossible.
“Can you fix it?”
“I can try,” he said. He reached for the spark plugs, his injury stiff. The simple act of gripping the wrench sent a fresh wave of fire up his arm. He bit back a curse and tried again, finally wrenching the first plug free. It was fouled, coated in an oily residue.
He held it up as evidence. “See? Just dirty plugs. I can clean them.”
The next thirty minutes was a cycle of fumbled attempts and curses muttered under his breath. Every bolt he tried to turn, every wire he tried to grab, was a fresh torment for his wound. He dropped the wrench twice, the clatter of the tool against the fiberglass floor a sharp punctuation mark to his failure. He could feel Sarah’s eyes on him, could feel her worry. He kept his head down, shame and defeat burning in his neck.
He at last got the plugs cleaned and reinstalled. He reconnected the fuel line and took a deep breath. “Okay, try it now.”
Sarah turned the key. The starter whined, a high, pathetic noise that echoed across the water, and then stopped.
He slammed his good palm against the engine block, the pain a welcome distraction from the cold dread seeping into him. “Goddammit!”
“It’s okay,” Sarah said softly.
“No, it’s not okay!” he snapped. “Nothing about this is okay! We’re in a stolen boat that doesn’t work, in the middle of nowhere, with barely any food and no plan!”
She met his outburst with a steady eye, her tone gentle. “But we’re together. So we’ll figure it out.”
Her simple, unwavering faith in them was a more effective blow than his anger. The fight went out of him, leaving him feeling hollow. He sank onto the bench, dropping his head into his hands. She was right. They would figure it out. They had to.
The sun was at its peak, a harsh white eye in a cloudless sky. They drifted, turning in a lazy circle, at the mercy of the current. The relief of the night before had curdled into a new kind of terror. Now they were stranded.
Hours went by. The heat was oppressive. They huddled under a small tarp they found, the canvas doing little to block the sun. They rationed sips from their new water bottles, the metal already warm to the touch. The water slaked their immediate thirst but did nothing to quell the growing fear of what would happen when the bottles were empty. They watched the shoreline grow closer as the tide pushed them toward it.
It was late afternoon when they saw it. A dark, skeletal shape on the horizon. Not land, but something built on the water. As they floated nearer, the shape resolved into a collection of weathered shacks on stilts, connected by a network of boardwalks. An old fish camp. A few modest, rugged fishing boats were tied to the pilings, and a thin curl of smoke rose from a chimney on one of the shacks.
They found two old oars stowed under the gunwale and used them to guide it toward the camp. Gusts of wind whistled through broken planks, causing the place to groan and creak as they approached.
After what felt like an eternity, they reached the pilings. They steered the boat into the shadows under one of the larger shacks and tied it off to a support beam.
John B grabbed the backpack and slung it over his shoulder. A rickety ladder led up to the main boardwalk. He went first, his injured knuckles making the climb agonizing. He pulled himself onto the boardwalk, the wood rough under his palms, then helped Sarah up. They stood for a moment, taking in the scene. The boardwalk was a patchwork of new and old planks, with treacherous gaps that showed the swirling water below. Nets, stiff with dried salt, were draped over railings. A string of desiccated crabs was fastened to a post, rattling in the breeze.
From their vantage point, they could see a man on the far dock, his back to them, mending a large net. They watched him for a long minute. The rhythmic pull of his fingers through the net was the only sign of life in the entire camp
“We have to do something,” John B whispered. “We can’t just stand here.”
“Do what?” Sarah whispered back, her eyes on the man. “Walk up and introduce ourselves? We don’t know who he is. He might not want company.”
“What other choice do we have?” he countered. “Stay in the water ‘til we starve?” He then gestured to the bandage, a pale flag of their desperation. “We have to take the risk. It’s him, or it’s nothing.”
She looked from him to the man on the dock, her expression a mixture of fear and calculation. He could see her weighing the risks: the certainty of their desperate situation versus the unknown danger of the stranger.
“Fine,” she said eventually. “But you look like you just crawled out of a shipwreck. Let me do the talking.”
He started to protest, his pride stung, but he knew she was right. He was a mess. She, even in her worn clothes, still possessed a trace of the confidence that had been bred into her. She could be disarming in a way he never could.
He nodded in reply.
They walked the length of the boardwalk, their footsteps loud on the aged wood. The man didn’t turn until they were about ten feet away. When he looked up from his work, his expression was guarded, his eyes narrowed slightly at their approach. He was a large man, with shoulders broadened by years of physical labor.
“Excuse me,” Sarah began, all traces of her earlier fear gone. “We saw the smoke from your chimney. We were hoping you could help us.”
The man’s eyes moved from Sarah’s face to John B, lingering for a beat on the bandage wrapped around his knuckles. He said nothing, instead continuing to pull a length of twine through the net he was repairing.
“Our boat broke down,” Sarah continued. “The tide brought us here. We’re just asking for a place to stay for the night.”
The man finally stopped his work. He set the net down and wiped his hands on his pants, his gaze a deliberate appraisal of them both.
“Engine trouble?” he asked, his voice a deep, flat rumble that held no trace of sympathy.
The question was a direct challenge. He was looking at John B now, expecting an answer.
“Yeah,” John B said, forcing himself to meet the man’s stare. “Spark plugs are damaged. I think the fuel line’s clogged, too.”
The man grunted, a noncommittal sound. He looked past them, out at their boat bobbing in the shadows of the pilings. “What kinda engine?”
John B’s mind raced. He knew it was a test. “Johnson,” he answered evenly. “Old two-stroke. Maybe a 40 horse.”
A flicker of something that might have been grudging respect showed in the man’s eyes. He seemed satisfied, for now, that John B wasn’t a complete fool.
“Help ain’t free,” the man said finally. “I need my crab pots hauled. They’re stacked at the end of the main dock. Heavy work. You get them onto my boat, you’ll have a meal and the bait shack for the night. If you can’t, you’re back on your own.”
“I’ll do it,” John B replied immediately, before Sarah could object.
The man grunted again. He pointed to the far end of the dock. “One with the green trim.” He turned and walked toward his own shack without another word, leaving them alone on the boardwalk.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Sarah turned to John B, her voice a frantic whisper. “John B, you can’t. Look at your hand. You’ll make it worse.”
“What other choice do we have?” he responded, his eyes fixed on the distant stack of wire cages. “It’s the only deal on the table. I can handle it.”
“Let me help, then.”
“No.” He shook and glanced toward the shack. The man was a silhouette in the doorway, observing them. “He’s watching, Sarah. He wants to see if I’m worth a meal. If you help, he’ll just see two useless kids, and we’ll be right back on that boat. Just… stay back. I’ve got this.”
He didn’t wait for her to argue further. He walked away from her, down the long stretch of splintered wood toward the crab pots. Each step felt labored, and the dull throb in his knuckles was already beginning to sharpen in anticipation of the work to come.
The pots were large square cages of wire mesh, caked with grime and slick with a thin layer of sea-slime. They were heavier than they looked, their wire edges sharp and unforgiving. John B’s hand was a screaming liability. Every time he gripped the wire mesh, the edges dug into his wounded knuckles, and the pain was a nauseating jolt that made his stomach clench.
He persevered through the pain, his muscles straining, his teeth clenched. He learned quickly to use his good arm for most of the lifting, contorting his body to compensate, his back protesting the unnatural strain. He could feel the warm, sticky sensation of the wound beginning to bleed again through the gauze. He ignored it, focusing on the repetitive motion of lifting, carrying, and stacking. The world narrowed to the coarse texture of the wire, the splintered planks of the dock beneath his feet, and the searing agony in his right hand.
The man watched from the doorway of his shack, his expression unreadable. He was a silent, intimidating presence, judging John B’s work ethic and endurance. He could feel Sarah’s eyes on him as well, could feel her worry radiating from across the dock where she stood watching.
After what felt like an eternity, the last pot was loaded. John B stood on the dock, his body trembling, his vision swimming slightly.
From across the boardwalk, the man’s words cut through the quiet. “You’re stronger than you look!” he shouted. “C’mon, then! You earned your meal!”
He disappeared from the doorway. John B and Sarah exchanged a look of relief before making their way toward the shack.
Inside, a single lantern illuminated a small, clean space that smelled of fried fish and woodsmoke. The man motioned to a worn plank table.
“Sit,” he grunted.
They sat on overturned crates while he ventured to the stove. He took two tin plates and loaded each with a large piece of fish and a scoop of steaming potatoes. He set the plates in front of them.
John B stared at the food. It was the first hot meal he’d seen in what felt like a lifetime. He picked up the fork and took a bite. The fish was greasy and salty; it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. He and Sarah ate in a hungry silence, devouring every last piece. They didn’t even look at each other; their entire world had narrowed to the food on their plates.
When they finished, the man took their empty plates. “Bait shack’s at the end of the dock. Door’s unlocked. Don’t cause any trouble.” He vanished into the main part of his shack without a backward glance.
The walk to the end of the dock felt longer than it was, the wind a cold presence pushing against them. They found the shack, a dark structure that looked even more dilapidated than the others. The door opened with a squeak.
Inside, the bait shack was cramped, but its four walls offered a welcome barrier from the outside. A single wooden bunk was built against the far wall. It offered a sense of safety, a feeling so foreign it was almost disorienting. The simple act of closing a door behind them felt like an impossible luxury.
“You’re an idiot,” Sarah said softly as soon as the door was shut.
“I got it done,” he muttered, sinking onto the edge of the bunk and refusing to meet her eyes.
“You almost passed out twice,” she responded. She stepped closer, observing his bandage. “Let’s see the damage.”
He didn’t argue this time. He was too beat. She unwrapped the gauze. The day’s labor had taken its toll. A fresh line of blood had soaked through the bandage, and the skin around the gash was puffy and tight.
She worked in the dim light, her expression grim as she cleaned the gash again with their antiseptic. He hissed as the liquid stung but held still, watching her face. The careful, intense concentration in her eyes was more alarming than the pain itself.
“You have to stop this,” she reprimanded. “This whole ‘I’m fine’ act.” She looked from the newly bandaged wound up to his eyes. “It didn’t have to get this bad.”
He nodded in reply, the gesture feeling inadequate. When she was done, she sat back, her shoulders slumping with a weariness that seemed to go beyond physical exhaustion.
“You should get some sleep,” he murmured.
She started to protest, but he cut her off. “I’m not going to be able to sleep anyway.”
She hesitated, then collapsed onto the bunk without another word, too tired to argue. She was asleep within minutes.
John B sat on the floor, his back against the wall. The only sounds were the steady rhythm of Sarah’s breathing and the moan of the wind through the slits in the floorboards.
He was so focused on his throbbing hand that he didn’t hear it at first. A new noise, cutting through the water. The thrum of another engine approaching the dock.
He froze, every muscle in his body going rigid. He looked over at Sarah, but she was still asleep, oblivious to the new sound.
He rose from the floor and crept to the door, pressing his ear against it. The engine sound was closer now. He heard it stop abruptly. A moment later, a soft bump echoed from beneath them as an object met the pilings.
Muffled voices carried on the night air, indistinct but undeniably present. Then came the heavy, thud of boots landing on the boardwalk. Someone else was here.
He darted from the door, into the deepest shadows of the shack, his heart pounding. The voices grew closer. One was the man’s low rumble. The others were unfamiliar.
“…not a bad haul,” one of the newcomers said. “Price of shrimp is up, at least.”
“It’s always up when you can’t find ‘em,” the man replied.
The pressure in his shoulders finally eased. It was purely business. Fishermen talking shop. He waited, his body still coiled, hoping they would move on.
“Weather’s turning tomorrow,” the first voice said. “Gonna be rough out there.”
“Tell me ‘bout it,” said a second man. “Might just stay in. Catch up on the news. You see that crazy story about the shooting down in Figure Eight? Some rich girl and a kid from the wrong side of the island.”
The air in the bait shack seemed to evaporate. John B felt the blood drain from his face. He glanced at Sarah’s sleeping form, a desperate, protective instinct surging through him.
“What about it?” the man asked.
“My wife’s cousin works catering. Says the whole island is crawling with cops. Kids ran off together after it happened. Here, I got the alert on my phone. They just put their pictures out.”
John B’s heart was a hysterical drum against his ribs. This was it. This was how it ended. Trapped in a bait shack at the edge of the world.
The man was closer now, his words coming directly from outside their door. “Let me see that.”
There was a pause. He imagined the screen of the phone lighting up the man’s face, showing him their pictures, connecting the two desperate kids he’d just fed to the fugitives on the news. He held his breath, waiting for the shout, for the accusation, for the end.
Then the man spoke.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”