Chapter 24
Dane Gallagher
Age 12
The sandover the graves has started to sink. I notice it the second I step into the clearing.
Two weeks ago, the mounds sat higher. Ryan and I did what we could, piling the sand up, but it’s already settling back down. One of the graves near the trees has sunk enough that the driftwood marker tilts sideways.
Ryan carved their names into the wood with one of the knives.
The clearing sits just above the beach, where the palms thin out. From here, the ocean moves in slow, steady breaths. Waves slide up the sand, hiss, then pull back again.
Out past the trees, the yacht sits where it ran aground, its white hull tilted into the sand. From a distance, it almost looks normal. Like we’re still on vacation. Like someone’s about to call us up for lunch.
I know better.
The dirt shifts under my heel as I turn away. For a second, I think about fixing the markers—straightening them, making them look right again.
I don’t. It won’t change anything.
A voice carries down from the yacht.
“Hold still.”
Charlotte.
I grit my teeth without thinking.
I head down the narrow path toward the beach. The sand is already hot under my feet, even this early. By the time I reach the edge of the trees, sweat is sliding down my back.
Up close, the yacht looks worse.
One side is buried deep in the sand, the whole thing tilted just enough to throw you off balance inside. Walking through it always feels wrong, as if the floor is trying to shift beneath you.
Inside, it smells faintly of bleach. We found the bottles in the yacht’s cleaning supplies. We’ve already gone through almost two of them.
The galley used to look perfect—polished counters, chrome fixtures, everything in its place.
Now it’s been taken over.
Canned food stacked across the counter. Bottles of water lined along the wall. Kitchen knives laid out beside a toolkit Ryan dug out of storage.
Ryan stands at the counter with his notebook.
He glances up when I come in. “Did you check the traps?”
“Yeah.”
“Anything?”
“Nothing.”
His jaw tightens. He nods and writes something down.
He’s always writing lately.
Food. Water. What we’re using. What’s left.
