“We circled around it a few times before you got here,” Wyatt hollers over the sound of the engines. “She’s moving a bit with the water, so we think she’s not stuck too hard.”

“Do either of you know how to drive that thing?” I ask. As we approach, the pusher tugboat looms huge, with three full decks. But it’s not so large as the four-section barge it’s pushing. They lie flat in the water, mounded with black coal, each one about two hundred feet long. The bulk of their cargo is hidden beneath the waterline, though. I have no idea how deep those barges go.

“It’s going to be a tough job,” Manny says. “Those towboats usually have a full crew of six or more sailors. But we don’t have to break and build tow, or maintain the pusher over the course of a long haul, so I’m planning to just steer her true and hope for the best. Come here, Paige.”

He gestures me forward, and I comply.

“Take the wheel,” he orders, stepping aside.

The steering wheel is wrapped in white leather and warm beneath my palms. The vibration from the engines shivers my skin.

“It’s just like driving a car,” Manny says. “Except instead of a gas pedal, your throttle is there, to your right. Go ahead; speed up a little.”

I seem to have left my bravery back at the bunker, because the thought of learning to drive a boat fills me with as much trepidation as crossing the Ohio countryside while avoiding drones. But as I’ve learned plenty of times playing basketball, you don’t need bravery if you’re determined enough. I grab the throttle with a vengeance and give it a tug.

The engine revs. The Tardis shoots forward. Water sprays up against the bridge windows, blurring my vision. The lake swells are definitely getting higher.

“That’s good,” Manny says. “You’re a natural.”

“She’s already got her sea legs,” Wyatt observes.

They’re lying liars. My thighs already burn from compensating for the sway, and I worry I might re-experience my breakfast.

A large wave rolls toward us, at least the height of the yacht. My stomach leaps dangerously.

“What should I do?” I ask, but my hands are already trying to steer away.

“No, don’t avoid it,” Manny says. “That’s how boats capsize, getting hit in the side. Steer right for it. That’s it. Now give it a little gas as we crest the wave. . . .”

All my instincts scream at me to do the opposite of Manny’s instructions, but sure enough, the Tardis climbs the base of the wave and cuts through the top like it’s nothing. My stomach drops into my toes as the boat plunges down the other side.

“See? No big deal,” Manny says.

“I’m really bad at this,” I observe.

“You’ll get better,” he says.