Wink’s not breathing. His face is blue, and there’s a bump on his forehead. Something’s twisted around his neck.

Jamie digs his finger under the ligature, untwisting it, and hauls something up from the water—the slipper bag!

At once, I understand what must have happened. Wink hung the slipper bag filled with the money around his neck, probably to make it easier to carry. He opened the door, and with the water pressure building on the other side, it clipped him on the head. Down he went, the bag acting like an anchor.

“Move him to the bunk,” Jamie growls.

We haul him up, then scramble after him. Jamie kneels by his chest, with me at Wink’s head. The water has not yet crested the top bunk but climbs as surely and steadily as a rising curtain.

“What do we do?” I peel off my gloves and feel for Wink’s pulse, wishing his arm didn’t feel so rubbery and cold. But I saw him jerk. It can’t be over yet.

Jamie places his right palm over Wink’s chest and pumps with a series of quick beats. “A man fell off the steamer a few months ago. We brought him back to life doing this.”

“What if it hurts him? Don’t make it worse.”

“It can’t get much worse than this. Come on, Wink.” He rests a beat, then starts pumping again.

Not feeling a pulse, I open Wink’s mouth and listen for breath. “Your time’s not up yet, lad.” My voice comes out sounding too tight, and I try to relax. “Your best mate’s waiting for you. Olly needs you, or he’s going to have trouble. We’re going to America, remember?” A sob rises in my chest. But as it reaches that tight spot in my throat, I growl it back. “We’re depending on you. Don’t you let us down.”

Jamie continues to pump. He’s lost his cap, and a blue vein jags like lightning across his forehead. Water streams down his face. He flips his hair back with annoyance.

“Let me take over,” I tell him, scooting to take his place. My two hands will be better than his one.

With one palm over the other, I pump with quick beats, blinking away tears. Wink’s chest bends and flexes, but he doesn’t breathe on his own.

Jamie grabs Wink’s hand. “Come on, mate,” he orders. “Do this for your mum. Think of how proud she is of you. She’s up there in heaven right now, sipping tea, and waiting for you to build that tree house. But you have to make it. Hear that, you stinkin’ minnow? You have to make it.” His voice cracks, chipping off a piece of my heart.

I keep pumping. The water rises to the mattress, pooling around Wink. The light bulb wanes, like a pale winter moon.