We watch the land grow closer. My phone vibrates from within the waterproof pocket of my life vest. I’m sure it’s Tori. I hide my front from the passengers and reach in to get it.

SCENE CHANGE—now only 23 dead. You’re doing something right! Also, NEW SCENE—big jolt right before smaller bump, then shot of ferry instrument panel covered with blood! Be careful!

Forty-Three

I text back in a frenzy, willing my fingers to hit the right buttons as we rock and churn: Is there a clock on the instrument panel??

And then I wait, frozen, begging her to narrow down the time of this imminent disaster. I show Ben, and he heads back to our table to tell the others about the big jolt.

Finally Tori replies: 6:38!!

I look at the time. It’s 6:35. “Shit,” I mutter. And then something inside me explodes and kicks me into gear. I stagger over to the others. “Three minutes, guys. The big jolt is at six thirty-eight.”

There’s a split second when everyone takes in the news.

Then Ben calls 911, giving them the approximate location as if we’ve already hit. Smart move. Every minute counts—especially when it comes to drowning.

“We should warn people to brace themselves,” Sawyer says. “Most won’t listen, but some might.”

“Good,” I say. “Yes. And remember—stay braced for two jolts. Then outside for life jackets, victims, lifeboats, rope. Everybody have their victim descriptions in mind?”

At 6:37, with no additional news, I shove my phone back into my waterproof pocket, seal it, and leave it there. We wait an agonizing thirty seconds, situating ourselves behind our table. Then Sawyer stands up and yells, “Brace yourselves! Everybody! Hang on!”

People turn to look at him, some in fear, others in annoyance.

“Hang on!” I echo, and so do the others. I grab the table, make sure Rowan is in a good spot. “I love you guys,” I say. “See you on the other side of this one!”

Sawyer leans over and kisses me hard on the lips. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” I whisper.

And then we hit.

Forty-Four

Five things that should never be airborne on a ferry:

1. A cat in a carrier

2. Golf clubs

3. Steaming-hot coffee

4. Any kind of coffee, really

5. Humans

• • •

The first jolt is a doozy, let me tell you. Not like the “run into a brick wall and stop” kind, but the “holy hell, that’ll slow down a fast-moving ferry in a hurry” kind. My ribs slam into the table edge, which takes my breath away. Trey ends up on the floor, but he signals he’s okay.

Everyone else in the ferry who wasn’t bracing or wedged behind a table is now on the floor. There’s a second of weird silence, and I realize the engines have shut down, and then the cries of pain and the shouts begin, along with a muted chorus of honking horns and car alarms coming from belowdecks. I look out the window and see nothing but water, and a ways off, a harbor. “One more, guys!” I shout. And then my eyes widen as I see the massive wave of our own wake bearing down on us. And I realize it’s Tori’s giant wave she kept talking about. “It’s after this wave!”

Trey crawls to the table and wraps his arms around the post.

It feels like we’re on a roller coaster. The wave picks the ferry up and rolls us way to one side and then pushes us, like a surfer, toward the shore, throwing more people off balance and onto the floor or crashing into tables.

We spin and ride the wave, and when we reach the bottom of it we feel the second jolt, and hear the groaning, grinding, shredding sound from the starboard side as the ferry lurches and shudders.

There is mass confusion, an emergency alarm goes off, and then a voice on the loudspeaker says something nobody can understand.

“Everybody okay?” I ask, trying to talk over the noise.

They nod. And I’m not going to lie—they all look scared shitless. Which is exactly how I feel.

“Okay. Let’s go!” I shout. “Now!”

We stay low to keep better balance as we step over and around people and luggage as the ferry continues to ride crazily over waves. As we move toward the door to the outer deck, we tell everyone who will listen to grab the flotation devices under their seats.

Once outside we can hear the emergency message directing people to put on their life vests and head to the lifeboat muster stations, but I know the people inside can’t understand a word of the message with all that noise. We form a human chain, with Ben and Trey hauling the life vests out of the bench seats and shoving them down at me and Sawyer. Rowan, who stands near the glassed-in area, passes them by the handfuls to people who need them as they begin to stream outside. We try to talk in calm tones whenever the voice on the loudspeaker stops, trying to help keep order, but it’s nearly impossible. And the ferry keeps lurching and rolling on the waves. But we manage to find at least a few of our victims from the list and get life vests on them.

Finally we grab armloads of the remaining life preservers from the front deck and go back inside to try to find our victims and make sure they have them. We figure that most of the drowning victims are the people who were injured at the first impact, thinking they may be unable to get to a lifeboat. But none of our victims are where they were just minutes ago. Crew members are in sight, some sporting obvious injuries but helping people to the lifeboats anyway.

We split up. Rowan peels away from the group and heads to the first-class cabin, and from my list I spot the older couple with matching sweatshirts and rush over to them. The woman is lying on the deck and the man is on his hands and knees beside her, trying to stay in one place.