The woman staggered, just as I snatched at . . . the slick pipe curl of the spiral stair, the weathered wood rail of the gangway. Which, dammit, which? Time-blind, my hand fell between them, corrected, reached for wood, for the now. I wrapped a leg around a support post and gave in to the curve of steel, to my arm around a woman’s thin torso, so thin, was she sick? I clung to the rail until my muscles screamed, straining to pull her up with me step by step as the water rose in thunder like a subway racing by.

The wave engulfed us.

Its force tore the woman from my grip. Under water, I grappled, caught one hand, palm to palm, arms and shoulders tortured with effort. Her nails were shaped and clean. A single silver bangle wrapped her narrow wrist. She held on bravely, head thrown back as if for air, glasses washed away. Her face, revealed, was somehow familiar, but no one I could name. She looked at me fondly, then let her hand go slack. I lunged to catch her, as far as I dared, but she slipped from my grasp. Horror and resignation welled up in her eyes as she tumbled away into darkness. My fingers closed over empty water. I called after her, but only sucked in ocean.

Lungs bursting, I hauled myself hand over hand up the wave-battered gangway, broke the surface with a gasp, and threw myself flat on the top slats, barely a yard above the surging flood.

I lay retching up seawater, lost in a battleground of then and now. But the crazy shuddering of the walkway roused me. The angry surge was tearing at the understructure. I crawled to the supporting brick façade and curled up in a window recess. Hardly shelter at all, but I couldn’t see to go any farther. The woman’s last glance was tattooed on the inside of my eyelids.

It was a while before I heard anything but my own sobbing. Then, voices, raised above the storm roar. Real, this time. A voice I knew.

I leaped to my feet as if I’d been kicked, backhanding rain and salt from my eyes. More than wind and torrent shook the walkway. Half a block down, a blur of shadows pitched from railing to building and back again. Fists swung and landed.

Dumb, dumb, dumb to pick a fight in the middle of a hurricane. But the voice I’d heard was Rubio’s, bellowing in pain and outrage.

I scrambled toward them. The walkway swayed like the deck of a ship. Behind me, the gangway groaned and ripped free. Ahead, three guys and Rubio, roaring and pummeling. Too man-angry to notice the boards and cross-bracing collapsing beneath them. Rube’s only advantage was his long legs and arms, but in a close fight, that hardly mattered. No question who was getting the worst of it.