There were four of us when I took my first breath—Mum, Ba, Jamie, and me. The number four sounds like death, but Ba roasted a pair of suckling pigs to celebrate our birth. After Mum got her first taste, she declared she’d bear Ba another set of twins just to have that special dish again. There were four, and now there are two.

Before the impact of the second smokestack finishes vibrating through my bones, another sound starts up, this one even more terrible. Metal screeches, accompanied by the clamor of wood, tile, glass, and steel, all being thrown together. It sounds as if a giant pair of hands has taken ahold of the ship and twisted her in the middle, slowly breaking her apart. Everything in me comes to a crashing halt—muscle, blood, breath.

With our cheeks pressed to the board, Jamie and I stare at each other in horror. For the first time, I notice that his cheek is smeared with something red, and a bump has appeared on the side of his head.

“Jamie, you’re bleeding.”

“Something hit me when that first smokestack went down. Don’t worry, I’ve been applying ice.”

“Not funny. You need medical attention.”

“I’ll be sure to call an ambulance as soon as I find the telephone.”

The lights flicker out, and I hear myself whimper. This time, they don’t turn back on.

Then the giant hands become fists that pound the ocean like a thirsty man calling for drinks. Water begins swirling around us, sucking us backward.

Jamie begins to kick again.

“I can’t . . . I can’t . . .” I gasp.

“Yes . . . can . . . a little farther.”

I move my legs, wondering if it’s possible to freeze mid-kick. I focus on counting—yut-yee-som, yut-yee-som—over and over again in my head.

The screams had tapered off, but they begin anew, as if everyone still aboard that doomed ship has taken a collective breath, filling their lungs for a fresh wave of torture.

I know I shouldn’t, but I peek.

Without her electric lights, the Titanic forms a black outline against the starlit sky. But everything’s gone pear-shaped, and for a moment, I wonder if my head is twisted on wrong.

The ship lies at a steep angle, her back half poking up like a duck that’s bobbed under the surface to snatch a fish. The last two smokestacks have broken off, gone like the others, committed to the sea. People brace themselves on whatever they can—benches, rails, even ventilator shafts. But that doomed elevator will only move in only one direction now. If they don’t step off in time, those riding it will be sucked under, the air squeezed out of them.

Jamie looks back, too, his kicking ceasing as well. “Bloody hell.” His voice is barely a whisper.