The barge is so huge, the coal so vast. It could be anywhere. I jump in, sweep my fingers through the coal, hoping to get lucky. If Wyatt lost the inhaler when he was outside of the trough, there’s no chance of recovery; the waves have surely swept it away.

“Paige, hurry,” Trey calls.

Shit. I search harder, but it would take an hour to thoroughly look through just this section of barge. I could be here all day.

Out of desperation, I reach for Wyatt’s shovel. I’m just as likely to damage the inhaler with the shovel’s blade as find it, but I’m running out of—

I let out a little yelp. There it us, right under the shovel, a plastic teal thing covering a metal canister, blackened with wet sediment.

I fish the inhaler out of its bed of coal and leap from the trough. My ankle is killing me, and the deck is slippery with waves, so I keep hold of the rail as I make my way back to Trey and Wyatt.

“Oh, thank god,” Trey says, reaching for the inhaler, and I hand it to him. Trey wipes it down and gives the inhaler a good shake. “Here you go,” he says, lifting it to Wyatt’s mouth and depressing the canister.

Wyatt sucks on it like it’s life itself. His chest expands, and he holds it there, refusing to exhale. Tears leak from his eyes.

This is why Wyatt never played football. This is why he felt so bruised when Tanq called him “the weak link.” He has serious asthma, and he’s ashamed of it.

What an idiot. Wyatt could have so easily trusted us with this. We would have broken into a pharmacy for him. We would all be carrying extra, emergency inhalers by now—if he had just told us.

He exhales finally.

“Better?” Trey says, and Wyatt nods. “Okay, let’s do another puff; then we’ll get you off this boat.”

They repeat the process. Wyatt’s skin is already pinker, his wheeze less pronounced. The cut on his forehead bleeds badly, dripping into his ear and pooling there before oozing down his jaw. I don’t have anything to mop it with, so I shake my sleeve off and press it to his scalp. Wyatt winces, but Trey says, “Thanks, Paige.”

“He might have a concussion,” I say. “But his skull feels intact. And this sleeve is not exactly sanitary.”

“One thing at a time,” Trey says.

The three of us stay like this, huddled together on the side of the barge. Manny watches from the upper deck of the towboat, his gaze skimming the water. Wyatt continues to breathe, guided by Trey. His wheezing gradually disappears as I keep pressure on his scalp wound. The wind is so angry now, whipping my hair into my mouth. Cold, fat drops of water splat onto my cheeks.