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The other man, a stranger until a few hours ago, when they’d been assigned the same small space, had told him he was from Saskatoon. He was a drummer with the Salvation Army on his way to England with his wife and children, to their big convention.

He’d been excited. Nervous. The first time away from home. The first time the prairie boy had been on a ship. Though it was Jean-Guy’s first time too.

Now the young man grabbed at Jean-Guy’s clothing, ripping the pajama top. And uttering language not generally heard from a member of the Sally Ann. Jean-Guy turned and, picking up the broken leg of a chair, he pummeled the man until the grip on his clothes loosened and the drummer slipped below the surface.

As the frigid water rose, Jean-Guy finally found the door and pulled. And pulled. But the pressure of the rising water was holding it closed.

Finally, with a cry of desperation and the strength that came with panic, Jean-Guy managed to yank it open.

“Help, help,” he heard from behind him, as his other cabinmate fought to get out. But the door slammed shut behind him and Jean-Guy turned away.

There were no lights in the hallway. It was pitch-black. Absolute, complete darkness. But there were sounds. Noise. Other passengers shouting. Screaming. He could hear the water, now over his knees, sloshing.

His legs and hands were numb.

Someone pushed by him, almost knocking him off his feet. The man was heading to Jean-Guy’s right. For the stairs, the deck. The lifeboats.

Safety.

Annie and the children, Honoré and little Idola, had been assigned another third-class cabin. In a section reserved for women and children. It was, Jean-Guy knew, deeper into the ship. It would be almost impossible for them to escape without help.

Their cabin was off to the left.

Clutching the life jacket, he paused.

Then turned right.

“Jean-Guy?”

He startled awake and found himself gripping the sides of the desk with such force he’d almost tipped it over.

“Are you all right? What’s happened?”

It was Isabelle. She was kneeling beside his chair, both hands on his forearm, and staring into his wide-open eyes.

Then she looked at the screen and saw there the description of the last minutes on board the Empress, as told by survivors. There was a pen-and-ink drawing of a man leaping off the ship into the St. Lawrence.

Jean-Guy took a deep, deep breath. It was a dream. Wasn’t real. Wasn’t real. He’d never do that. Never. Ever.

Papa!

“I’m fine.”

“Of course you are.” Isabelle got to her feet and motioned toward the portrait of Ruth.

The irascible old poet’s award-winning volume was called I’m F.I.N.E., which stood for “Fucked-up, Insecure, Neurotic, and Egotistical.” No one disagreed. Though Gabri had used a Sharpie to place an R at the end of the title on their personal copies as well as every one of Ruth’s books in Myrna’s shop. And any other bookstore he happened to be in.

The R, he explained, stood for “Rude.”

No one disagreed that Ruth was indeed F.I.N.E.R., and getting more so every day.

Though Ruth claimed it meant “Remarkable.”

They knew she was that too.

Jean-Guy smiled, though Isabelle wasn’t fooled. There hung about her colleague and friend that familiar caul of trauma. They each carried it with them every day.

But this was different. This was fresh. Something awful had just happened to Jean-Guy.