“Let go.” Though my stomach clenches at the salt water I’ve swallowed, I grab the lifesaver and dolphin-kick forward—past the remaining boiler casings, past the crew dormitories, past the endless passenger cabins. Wink kicks his legs as well, though after accidentally kicking me in the chest a few times, he stops. The ceiling now hovers only two feet above our heads. I push harder, scrambling to get us out before E-Deck is completely underwater.

My lungs heave and sputter. The air feels too thick, like breathing in oversalted soup. Is this what it feels like to drown?

A sudden swell makes my stomach drop. This is it. Jamie’s gaze connects with mine, as if the same bleak thought has occurred to him as well. He blinks, an assurance that whatever happens, we’ll be okay.

I prepare to hold my breath for as long as possible, even if it only prolongs the agony.

But then another swell muscles us forward with a watery shove that fills my ears and nose. The sea tosses us like bath toys, sweeping us down the long corridor. My head hits a doorjamb, and stars spark in my vision. Still, I manage to hang on to Wink. We’re yanked forward once more, and then the water breaks, as if we’ve reached a wall.

I pop up to the surface with a wheezy gasp. The aft stairwell rises around us, its glorious ceiling extending for several floors. Somehow, we’ve reached the end.

My knees hit stairs. I struggle to pull myself up by the rail while Jamie hauls Wink to his feet.

Wink’s hands still clutch the lifesaver in a way that seems permanent. His eyes are glazed. Has the strain been too much for him? But then he spits and honks loudly, spraying seawater from his mouth and nose.

“You okay?” Jamie pants.

A shiver travels through Wink’s small body. “Still salty,” he says with a ferocity that surprises me.

Jamie grins. “I know you are. I was talking to her.”

“Oversalted,” I gasp, catching my breath.

“Let’s get upstairs before we freeze.”

Or drown. I take Wink by the elbow, but he doesn’t budge, standing with the solemnity of a church pulpit.

“I saw Amah,” he says, using the Cantonese word for mother. “When I was drowned. I saw her, and she said the Catholic priest was right.”

Vaguely, I recall that Wink attended the Catholic Sunday service while Olly tried out the Protestant one. “About what?” I ask gently.

A drop of water slides down his cheek, and then another, and I realize it isn’t from his wet hair. With a sniff, he uses his arm to wipe his eyes. “My ba said I killed her. But the priest said, babies can’t kill.”