One hour later, my hunch proves correct. Rain pummels the boat and the sky still growls, but the wild intensity has calmed. I open the radar on my phone to see that Garnet Shores is now swimming in a swath of dark green. All that red’s moved on.
The worry recedes, and I pause the show, slipping out of bed. My bare feet touch down, the carpet unusually cool against my skin.
No. Not cool.
Wet.
It’s just a spill. All the rattling must have shaken my water bottle off the…
Shelf. Where my water bottle rests, upright and capped.
Shit.
Trepidation sinks in. If it isn’t my water, it’s a bigger problem—like a leak from the cabin door. Abigleak,because the carpet practically squelches underfoot as I approach the entrance.
I snag a towel on the way, hoping it’s enough to plug the crack.
But when I inspect the small wooden door, there’s nothing to plug. The area’s completely dry.
Is…is there a leak in the walls? Some cracked seam?
Feeling foolish, I begin perusing the cabin’s walls, looking for signs of moisture. After checking the right side, I move to the left—and find my feet submerged in a full-blown puddle. I glance down.
Right by the trim, the water ispooling. Which means there’s enough water in heretopool, and the boat is listing to the—oh my god.
Trying to hold panic at bay, I tear the edge of the carpet from the buttons that hold it down. The waterlogged fabric is heavy as I fold it back, revealing what I feared. A hatch to a compartment deep in the boat. The bilge, I think it’s called.
Liquid slips out of the frame and onto the cabin floor.
Digging for courage, I lift the hatch—and find myself staring into an overflowing pool of dirty water.
My heart catapults into my throat as I drop the hatch and lunge for the control panel. The bilge pump switch is on, but the little light beside it is red.
Ohhh shit.
I shove open the cabin door, stand on the sill, and stare with wide eyes at the inch of water flooding the deck, its surface jumping with more heavy rain.
Rain that isn’t stopping any time soon, according to that radar.
I don’t know how much water a boat needs to sink, but I really,reallydon’t want to find out.
Stumbling back into the cabin, I lunge for my phone, flipping quickly through the renter’s manual for the emergency repair guy’s number. The ringtone goes on, and on, and on, bringing me to voicemail. I try again, because the point of being theemergencyguy is beingavailable for emergencies, even late at night, but I land at his voicemail again.
“This can’t be happening,” I mutter, phone trembling as my fingers begin to shake. A gust of wind blows rain into the cabin as I try the boat owner.
Again, voicemail.
I try two more times, fear sinking in its claws with every unanswered ring.
This boat is going to sink. Or at the very least, flood. Damage electronics.Fuck.
I don’t know what to do. I’m not a boat person. There…there might be a bucket around but I don’t know how to repair this, fix this—what to even do.
My fingers are tapping my contact list and scrolling to his name before I even realize. Tears prick my eyes, my system near full-blown panic, as the dial tone rings.
“Please pick up. Please pick up,” I pray, more rain soaking the entrance of the cabin.
“Gray.” His voice, tired and annoyed, hits me like a ton of bricks.
