Ryan glances at me.
I shrug. “Because the people who tried to steal the yacht made sure it wouldn’t.”
Her eyes flick back to him.
He gives a short nod. “Everything’s been wiped. Radio, satellite phone, beacon. All of it.”
I fold my arms loosely. “We’re on one of the most remote islands out here. No one’s coming—they don’t even know where to look.”
Ryan closes his notebook and drags a hand over his face, then straightens. “We can’t stay on the yacht.”
Charlotte looks up. “Why?”
He gestures around us. “Because this place is turning into an oven.”
He’s not wrong. The air barely moves. Heat sits in the walls, in the floors, in everything. Even standing still, sweat slides downmy back. The cabins hold it all day and give it back at night, until everything feels damp and suffocating.
Bleach. Salt. Sweat.
It smells like all of it.
Ryan nods toward the ceiling. “There’s no airflow. The breeze barely makes it inside.”
Charlotte glances at the stairwell, like she’s picturing it. “So what—we live outside?”
Ryan shrugs. “I think we have to. We’re already tight on water, and we’re sweating more than we’re drinking.” He gestures around us. “If we stay in here, someone’s going to end up with heatstroke.”
“Jameson needs to stay hydrated,” Charlotte says. “We have to find fresh water soon.”
I shift my weight against the counter. “Right. Brilliant plan.”
Her head snaps up. “Do you ever stop? Or is being a jerk the only thing you’re contributing?”
I let out a quiet laugh. “Sorry—did I interrupt your clever escape plan?”
“At least I’m trying to come up with one,” she shoots back. “All you do is complain.”
“Yeah? Because everything’s going so well.”
Ryan exhales, sharp and short. “Enough.”
He looks between us once, then keeps going like nothing happened. “If we set something up near the trees, we’ll catch the breeze off the water. It’ll be cooler, especially at night.”
Charlotte’s already thinking ahead. “What about rain? There are tarps in the emergency lockers. And rope. We could rig something up—shelter, and a way to collect water.”
“Yeah,” he says, already shifting gears. “That’ll work.”
I hate that it’s a good idea. And I hate more that Ryan sees it too.
Two weeks ago, he was arguing with Dad about renting jet skis when we hit one of the inhabited islands on our route. Now he’s figuring out how we stay alive.
He looks at me. “You and I can clear a spot this afternoon.”
I shake my head. “So that’s it? We just ditch the yacht?”
“We’re not ditching it,” Ryan says. “We use it for supplies.”
I glance down the hallway toward the cabins. Even now, the air feels thick down there.
