The table only has seating for eight. We bring in as many other chairs as we can find and put them around the walls. The furniture creaks and smells like mold, but the crew has done their best to clean up the space. The old mahogany tabletop gleams. The abalone chandelier glitters overhead. The silverware, each piece engraved with Captain Nemo’s crest, has been polished like new.

Jupiter has prepared a delicious selection of macroalgae sandwiches. He’s also baked several dozen chocolate-chip cookies, which reinforces my belief that he is the most essential member of this crew.

Ester wasn’t kidding about the number of injuries. Between us, we have enough bandages, splints, casts, and slings to build a first-aid man.

Once everyone has had something to eat—it’s a very quiet meal—I finally speak.

“Guys, I had no idea about Dev.” I’ve practiced what to say, but still I can hardly form the words. “I thought he was dead. What Dev did—I don’t even know the person who could do that to our school and our friends.”

I brush away a tear. I’ve known my classmates for two years, but right now I can’t read their expressions. Their blurry faces swim in front of my eyes. I wonder if this is how Ester feels all the time.

“If you think I was involved somehow,” I say, “I don’t blame you. At this point, I don’t trust me, either. I don’t own this ship. You deserve another vote about who will be in charge. Gem can take over, or anyone you choose…. I guess I’m trying to say I’m sorry.”

The only sound is the distant hum of the air circulators.

“Ana,” Gem says at last, “nobody blames you.”

I stare at him. I’d be less surprised if he told me the ocean was purple.

“You’re not your brother,” he continues. “What he did doesn’t reflect on you. You’ve brought us this far and kept us alive.” He looks around the group. “Anybody disagree? If so, speak up.”

No one does.

I wonder if this is just peer pressure. Gem is a hard person to contradict. But I sense no discomfort in the crew: no furtive glances, no squirming in seats.

A feeling of gratitude wraps around me like a warm quilt. I want to thank my friends, but that seems insufficient. The best way I can thank them is by living up to their trust.

“If you’re sure,” I say, brushing away another tear, “then we have a lot of work to do. Where are we on repairs?”

Their reports do not help my headache. Our to-do list is as long as the submarine. On top of cleaning goop and repairing the systems we broke when we made our escape, there are still a thousand things about the Nautilus we don’t understand.

Luca and Ophelia spent two years trying to comprehend this ship. They were HP’s best. If we ever want to get underway again, we’ll have to complete their work without the benefit of their experience—or their base or any other kind of repair facilities. And we don’t have two years in which to do it.