Several changes of vehicle later, we were cruising down Second Avenue in Julian’s sleek inboard, my kayak slung along the port side and my head spinning with the abrupt turn of events. Like Julian said, Daniel moved fast when he put his mind to it.

The speedster was a tight fit for three, with me in the front, silent beside Julian as he drove, Daniel squeezed crossways into the slot behind, called a rear seat but better used for small cargo. The backpack was balanced on his thighs. The darkness kept our speed to reasonable, and staying alert for threats from the cross streets or the approach of other boats limited talk. Which was good, since Julian was in a monumental sulk, and I was tired of being someone’s unwanted responsibility. Daniel was irritable, leaning in between us to comment on Julian’s driving or choice of route. His jaw was tight, his eyes squinty from searching the shadows. All patience and ease had gone out of him, like he was wrestling with thoughts he didn’t care to share.

Amazingly, after the expected smart-ass debate, Julian did what he was told. No hint of brothers or sisters so far in my big memory quake, so I might’ve missed out on sibling dynamics. Maybe their constant jabbing at each other was part of being brothers? Still, the hierarchy was clear, the way I’d submit to seniors in the den even if I didn’t agree with them.

A water taxi turned out of a side street, heading uptown. Julian slid us into the deeper night along the building face and cut the running lights. The taxi took this as a threat, sped up and passed us by.

This boat was agile and easy in the water, a pleasure to ride in, even if she was a stink pot. I was feeling steadier. Just being out on the water brought me back into focus. I stroked the gleaming teak dashboard.

“Does she have a name?” I asked Julian.

He made a sour face. “Just the one she came with.”

“Of course.” Bad luck to change a boat’s launch name.

“Sea Sprite,” supplied Daniel, his voice as flat as his mood.

The worst sort of boat cliché. “Bummer.”