I give his wet shoulder a squeeze. “I’m glad you got that squared away. There’s no baby on earth who could hurt their mum, and that’s just how it is.”

His hunched shoulders seem to loosen. For one so tiny, he sure is casting a heavy shadow.

Jamie’s mouth is set into a line. As he pulls Wink up the stairs, I can’t help wondering if he’s thinking about more than just the water creeping up to our feet, but about Mum and the monkey on his own back.

At the landing on D-Deck, we squeeze out our clothes as best as we can, but Wink’s teeth are chattering so hard, I expect to see shards breaking off. “Let’s try the rooms.”

We fling open cabin doors and find dry coats for each of us. Mine has a big enough pocket to keep the whirling drum secure. Jamie sets a pair of girls’ patent leather Mary Jane shoes on the ground before Wink’s bare feet. “Just put them on,” he growls.

Wink, his cheek twitching like an angry click beetle, stuffs his thin feet inside. I thread his arms into a coat, then ring him with the lifesaver again. The extra fabric helps the lifesaver stay up. Last, Jamie pulls a stocking cap over Wink’s head.

Then I help Jamie button his coat. “Let me redo the sling.”

“Forget the sling. That ice bath has my shoulder feeling good.”

“You mean numb.”

Water splashes up from E-Deck, licking at our feet.

“March,” Jamie orders us. “We don’t have much time.”

40

From the Smoking Room, I’m shocked to hear the sounds of people singing and the tinkling of piano keys. I shake out my waterlogged ears. Sharp cheers also burst forth—the kind that accompany a dice throw or shots of whiskey. In the adjacent General Room, someone is giving a vigorous sermon.

“Water,” croaks Wink.

Though there are drinking fountains in both rooms, Wink chooses the one with the preacher. He takes a long draw, sucking in water with his whole body.

The preacher raises his hands. “It’s never too late to be saved! Our heavenly Father welcomes even the newest convert.”

When I put my lips to the fountain, the sweet-tasting water feels warm on my tongue. If these people want saving, they should get to the Boat Deck.

After he drinks as well, Jamie herds us back to the exit, edging past the clergyman, who’s pressing palms with the woebegone. The preacher reaches a group of men sitting shoulder to shoulder, their white-blond hair nearly glowing, set off by their purpling faces. I nudge Jamie, recognizing Bledig and the bottom cutters. One of the men begins to bawl.