We climb the ladder to the second deck, which appears clear at first glance, then climb another ladder to the third deck, which houses the bridge. Like the Tardis, it’s enclosed with glass and has a complicated-looking piloting station. Unlike the Tardis, the windows are a bit slimy.

The door to the bridge is closed. Wyatt is the one who reaches to unlatch it.

A wave of decomp hits like a punch to the face, and we all recoil.

“We’ll let that air out a bit,” Manny says, blinking against tears brought on by the smell.

Wyatt says, “I’ll find a blanket or tarp or something,” and he disappears down the ladder.

This boat—no, it’s a small ship—doesn’t rock with the swells as much as the Tardis, but I’m still aware of the rising waves, the wind becoming more punishing with each passing moment. At least it makes short work of the fetid air in the bridge.

I’m the first to peek inside.

A body lies curled up in the back corner, a few strides away from the piloting station. She’s petite, even more so now that her body has gone past the bloating stage and started caving in on itself. Long brown hair flows from beneath a wool cap, and stained, stiff blue jeans end in bright red deck shoes. She was wearing a short-sleeved shirt when she died. The skin of her tiny arms is wrinkled like a raisin and bright red, like she’s been in the sun all this time.

Above the steering wheel is a glass hummingbird, hanging from a suction cup on the window, like fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror of a car. Along with the hummingbird is a laminated badge on a lanyard. The woman on the floor smiles up at me from the badge. Her brown hair frames a wind-chapped face and peeling lips, but her smile is bright, her cheekbones high. She has old skin but young eyes—no more than thirty years old. The badge identifies her as Captain Mercedes Wade, employee of the Toledo Barge Company.

I grab the badge and shove it under my lifejacket, into the pocket of my hoodie.

“Thanks for the boat, Captain Wade,” I whisper.

“Everything okay in there?” Trey calls.

“Fine. Not as gross as some of the stuff we’ve seen.”

“Here comes Wyatt,” Manny says. “Where did you find that, Wyatt?”

“Don’t ask,” Wyatt says, and his blocky form suddenly fills the doorway. He’s holding a sailcloth, folded into a neat but heavy square. Together, Wyatt and I unfold the sailcloth and drape it over the body of Captain Mercedes Wade.

“Okay, it’s clear,” I call out, and Manny and Trey tumble into the bridge cabin. “So,” I say to Manny, mostly to distract Trey, who looks a little queasy, “do you think you can drive this thing?”