His hand travels to the small of my back and pulls me close, our legs entwining. In all our layers of clothes and blanket, we kiss, gently, softly. We touch our foreheads together and exist, for a moment, only in each other’s eyes. I pull the blanket over our heads and we lie there, just kissing and touching and being close and safe and free of all the stress. I would lie like this forever if I could.

“I love you,” I whisper.

“Yes, yes, you do.” Sawyer grins and kisses me, and I grin too and our teeth click together. “Ow,” he says, laughing.

The spell is broken. The brain wins round two. I pull the blanket off our faces and check the sun. Not quite there.

We wait and watch, mostly in silence amid gentle, somewhat absentminded caresses, cool fingers on bare skin, as the Earth turns us. As we focus on the task we’re here to do, my mind moves to logistics. I think we’re both trying to visualize this rescue and how it has to happen.

“We just need to put our life vests on first,” I say at one point. “That’s what’s going to keep us alive.”

“I know,” Sawyer says.

“I wasn’t telling you. I was just talking out loud.”

He turns his face toward mine with the hint of a smile. “Oh.”

Later, he says randomly, “Rope.” He sits up. “Are you free tomorrow afternoon?”

“Duh.” I shield my eyes from the sun with my hand. It’s getting close to the thirty-degree-angle mark.

He pulls out his phone and sends a few text messages, then settles back down.

I pull out my protractor, scoot out from under the blanket, and set the tool on its edge on a mostly smooth portion of sand that looks like it’s pretty level. Then I lie on my stomach and put my face in the sand next to it. I use a thin stick to project the thirty-degree line and wait.

“It’s close. What time is it?”

Sawyer checks. “Eight fifteen.”

I dig a little hole in the sand for my face, to make sure my eye is lined up with the protractor. My eyes water. “Should have brought sunglasses,” I mutter.

“What exactly are you doing?” Sawyer asks. I can hear the amusement in his voice.

“I don’t know! I’m just trying to think logically.” I sit up and wipe the sand from my cheek. “The ferry leaves at six. It is now eight fifteen and the sun is in the position where Tori believes it to be behind the clouds. The question is, could the ferry get this far in two hours and fifteen minutes? I say absolutely yes, but only if it intended to, and at a reasonably high speed.”

“But that is not the normal intent of this ferry.”

“Correct. So what would have to happen to make the pilot of the ferry go so off course?”

We contemplate.

“All I can think of is the mafia,” Sawyer says, half joking.

“Maybe it’s hijacked. It can go wicked fast, you know. Or,” I say, “I know—maybe there’s a different vessel in trouble, and because the ferry can carry so many passengers, and because it’s fast, the Coast Guard calls them to assist.”

Sawyer drums his fingers on his thigh, considering. “That actually sounds plausible. Remember when that plane landed in the Hudson River in New York? Didn’t the ferries come to help pick up people?”

“I don’t know. But,” I say, thinking of something new, “if the weather is too windy and the lake is choppy, a helicopter wouldn’t be useful. Plus they can only rescue one person at a time.”

We both think about it.

“And then,” Sawyer says, “maybe in the act of saving the people on the other vessel and riding the crazy waves, the ferry smashes against a breakwall. It takes on water fast, plus the waves are getting higher and water rushes in over the sides, too, and in a matter of minutes, it’s the Titanic.”

“Man, that would suck for those people from the other shipwreck to be rescued and then immediately be in another one. Two shipwrecks in a matter of hours? Now that’s a bad day.”

“But the irony makes it feel right, doesn’t it? I mean, unbelievably tragic shit like that happens all the time.”

I stare out over Lake Michigan, which is deceptively calm this morning, with light waves washing ashore. I check the weather on my phone. The chance of thunderstorms has increased to 50 percent on Monday, and decreased to between 0 and 10 percent the rest of the week.

“Sawyer,” I say, “based on the weather forecast and the banner Tori saw, I’m convinced this is happening on Monday. I think we should plan on being on that ferry in Milwaukee at six a.m.”

Thirty-Six

We do a quick conference call on the way home from the beach. I explain my reasons for believing the ferry disaster is happening on Monday, and after a short discussion, everybody agrees. Ben, who has a credit card, buys five tickets for Monday at six a.m. We plan to pick up Ben at four (groan) and drive up to Milwaukee together.

Saturday night, after Sawyer gets done playing with kittens at the Humane Society, he and I meet up at Tori’s to see how she’s doing.

Her mom lets us in. “She’s a wreck,” Mrs. Hayes says fretfully. “Are you sure this will go away?”

“If we have all the clues right and we manage to save some people, it will go away.” I’m still a little wary of her. I don’t need her obstructing things now. But she doesn’t argue and she stays out of our way.

Tori is sitting in the same recliner as last time we were here. Her eyes are closed. “I’m awake,” she says. “Just resting. Trying to get away from it for a bit.” The vision must be playing out everywhere.