I looked away, let out a long breath. This woman was either stone cold or a total stoic. Or so bruised, she was numb. I wondered if Ladysmith’s had counselors. Maybe ours could help. “Guess that’s why you stood firm to do right by . . .”

“Would’ve anyway.” Breakers gave that same chin jut she’d used to shut down Gracie. “How far you reckon till deep water?”

Weren’t we there already? Only not the kind she meant?

I’d said enough. “East of Gramercy there’s a low point.”

“Sounds good.”

We fell into silence. Peaceful, like we both agreed to back off getting too personal and just let the tide carry us down the long-deserted blocks of pale brick and shattered glass. The late light bleached the details from the east side of the street and dropped the west into deep, corrugated shadow. Plenty threat could be lurking there, but this sure beat walking. Or chatting with a minefield that still needed time and space to mourn.

Gave me a chance to consider: was that the story of my memory? Not lost, just too beat up to function? Like a limb gone numb, but at some point waking up—again, those triggers—with each remembered bit another brain cell stirring, firing at random until it recalled what its particular job was. Sometimes it was images. Today it was vocabulary. A full meal, a feast of boat words. And they kept coming.

Halyard, gunwale, companionway, spinnaker, jib . . . a litany of awakening. I treasured every rescued syllable.

Ears aimed sternward, I heard the sound before Breakers. “Motor behind.”

She turned, listened. “Yep. Fast one. West a block, but heading down.” She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Pop! Take the next turn east! Look for cover.”

Ahead a half-block, Poppy waved assent. Good to see they could work together when necessary. Gracie bent to her paddling while Jenn passed the order forward to Rivera, who made a neat dogleg left into 24th Street. I pulled hard as I had strength for.

He must have seen our wakes or something, ripples along the brick in an otherwise total calm, and got curious. By the time I swerved the dinghy onto 24th, the motorboat had made the cross from Third to Second, running up our tail. Rivera and the Zodiac had ducked into an opening between two yellow-brick low-rises, but as I made the turn, our tow canoe tangled with a light pole poking up through the water. Breakers was still tugging to free it when the motorboat cut its engines and pulled up in mid-channel, watching us.

Then it turned and grumbled our way.

A small blue speedster, needle-nosed, its open cockpit set well back. More deck than seating. Racing stripes. Two people inside, windblown, a shock of dark hair over mirror shades, a frizzle of red beside. Exactly as I remembered him, sleek and beautiful. The redhead was already complaining.

“I can’t fucking believe it,” I murmured.