I’m sorry to lose your wedding picture, honored parents. But in case you’re worried, don’t put on the kettle. You won’t see Jamie or me tonight, I swear.

Bo distractedly takes off his peacoat and pours the sweet warmth of it over my shoulders, then puts his cap over my head. Peering at something in the distance, he points. His shell ring gleams like a gibbous moon on a night that seems to lack one.

My eyes can barely make out anything in the darkness. But then a hint of white shows itself. I squint, trying to interpret the grey-and-black gradations of what’s before me. Finally, I suss out the edges of the thing—it’s a pale, jagged wall of ice.

“Ice mountain,” Bo says quietly, translating the Cantonese word for iceberg.

I gasp as the pieces fall into place. So we did hit an iceberg. It must have breached the hull, allowing seawater to flood Boiler Room 6.

Rivulets of water sprint toward the bow, angling starboard. The ship is definitely tilted toward the head. Are we still taking on water?

“They have ways to bail out, right?”

Bo fills his lungs, but then says simply, “There are pumps, yes.”

Did he stop himself from saying more? He’s intimately familiar with how boiler rooms work. Surely he has a good grasp of the situation.

I suddenly find it hard to draw air. He isn’t saying more because it doesn’t look good. What are a few pumps against a leak big enough to flood an entire boiler room? Plenty more souls will rise afore the night is done.

“We’re sinking, aren’t we?”

Bo squeezes my hand, his eyes grazing me with concern. “Maybe, Stowaway. But worry later.” He pulls me along like a farmer leading a stubborn mule.

Mourn later, worry later. How can I just set aside the enormity of what’s happening to us, like mail to open on another day? But I must, because people are depending on us. People I can’t lose.

I fling away catastrophic thoughts, glaring hard at my surroundings for Wink and Olly. Adrenaline floods my veins, honing my senses. The crank of the winches sounds like the screech of owls, and my nostrils fill with the iron scent of fear. Crewmen grunt, positioning davits so that the lifeboats overhang the sides of the ship, ready to be filled. From what I can see, not one craft has been lowered yet.

Bo steers me to the back rail, which gives us a view of the poop deck and the well deck. Dozens of people clutter these third-class decks, but none seem willing to bypass the waist-high gate to the superstructure.

Why the bloody hell don’t they crawl over the gate? Who cares about the rules now? The crew isn’t helping, so they better help themselves if they want to wake up tomorrow.