Some of the deceased now lie in a row in zippered bags on a harbor wall near the water’s edge. Others are covered with tarps, blankets.
A mountain of orange life vests rises beside a whitewashed wall covered in tangled pink bougainvillea. Tables have been set up with food and hot drinks.
The small harbor is chaotic—people milling everywhere. Many are survivors, wrapped in silver emergency blankets or jackets brought by villagers. Some wander, dazed. Others sit shell-shocked. A few call out names, still searching for loved ones. The wounded are being treated by paramedics or volunteers and are awaiting passage to clinics or hospitals.
Poppy isn’t sure how she got here. It’s all a blur now. And her glasses are missing, which doesn’t help—not being able to see clearly just adds to the fuzziness of her confusion.
A survival blanket has been wrapped around her shoulders. A bandage has been placed on her head wound, and her hair is damp andsticky from blood and salt spray. She’s bone cold despite the growing warmth of the rising sun.
She can see Patrick up a rise at the end of a road that leads from the harbor. He made it ashore in another lifeboat. The little road is flanked by quaint whitewashed buildings with blue doors. He’s talking to Arrabella.
Arrabella has both arms wrapped around him. Someone must have given him the plaid shirt he’s wearing—the sleeves are too short for his long arms. Poppy can’t see much more without her spectacles. But she knows it’s definitely Arrabella from the bright fuchsia-red hair against very pale skin.
Arrabella was waiting for Patrick down here at the tiny fishing harbor, watching as survivors were brought in.
She came running over and flung her arms around him.
Poppy saw him take her aside, drawing her out of the way and up that little rise. She wonders what they’re talking about. And what Patrick will do now. Near-death experiences, second chances—they change people in ways no one can predict.
Poppy’s thoughts turn to Lillith. And Hendrick.
No word about them yet.
An old Greek fisherman with a big bushy beard walks toward her, carrying a steaming mug. He wears a stained gray jacket over a striped sweatshirt with holes, baggy trousers, frayed sandals. He sits down beside her and offers her the tin mug of steaming hot chocolate.
She can smell it—the chocolate, the rich sweetness of it. She almost cries with gratitude at the kind gesture. She accepts the mug and wraps her hands around it for warmth, holding it awhile, allowing heat to seep into her palms.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
“How are you doing, Poppy?” he asks quietly. His voice is warm. Greek accent.
Poppy looks up into his face.
Shock rustles through her.
Confused, she just stares. Her brain struggles to make sense of what she’s seeing. It’s him. But it’s alsonothim.
His hair is dark and thick, and needs a cut. His beard is shot through with silver. Even his face is different, but unmistakably familiar.
“Avi?”
“You doing okay?”
“Why—whoareyou?”
“I need to tell you something.”
“Lillith? Has something happened to her?”
“No word on her yet.”
She peers at him, squinting without her glasses. Avi Galev is no longer Israeli. He’s become a Greek—not just any Greek, but an old one, from a small island. A fisherman. His accent. His intonation. His aura. Everything about Avi Galev has changed.
“What was in that pouch you gave her—the hard pouch that she put in her diamanté clutch bag?”
“Listen carefully. There’s a law firm in Edinburgh—the Auldbridge Group. When you return to Scotland, contact them. If you don’t, if you’re in shock, if you forget, don’t worry—they will reach out to you.”
“What are you talking about?”
