When his vision returned, blighted with dark erasures, the funnel churned in front of him—its smooth surface now scarred with sand, sea rock, the silver flash of unlucky fish. The wind pulled the breath from his lungs like a greedy kiss. He tried to scream, but the sky left him nothing. All air belonged to the storm.

Behind a veil of debris and vapor, he saw a face—lean and cold, with eyes the color of heavy clouds. He stared into those deep shadows, trying to read their currents. His mouth hung open, filling with sand and salt spray.

“Paula?” Sand grated across his tongue as he spoke.

He squinted against the whipping sand and shells, and reached into the funnel, toward the glowering face. Rocks beat his wrist and forearm. The heat of his blood ran cold in the biting wind. His fingers closed on something rough and solid. He clenched his grip around the thing and pulled, drawing it out of the eye and back through the whipping wall of storm. He leaned against the draw of the vortex. His hand reappeared through the sheet of vapor and he fell back onto the sand.

The funnel roped, twisted erratically, losing stability until it broke, wisped, and disappeared back up into the churning clouds.

Jacob lay panting in the sand. He reached to wipe debris from his eyes and found the strange thing still clutched in his fist. A handle of driftwood—light and smooth. From it protruded a carved scrimshaw blade.

He sucked air into his lungs, and the gasp echoed beside him.

A woman lay shivering, naked in the sand. A mane of hair fanned around her in tangled silver dreadlocks. Her skin was grey as a fish’s belly, and her roving eyes were white-gold as lightning.

She coughed as if the air abraded her lungs.

Jacob scrambled to sit and peeled off his windbreaker. He fished his phone from the pocket and draped the jacket over her.

“You’re okay—it’s okay; I’m calling for help.”

The phone felt hot and wet against his cheek. He pulled it back, long strings of dark plastic trailing between his face and his hand. The glass of the screen fell away as fine sand.

The woman shrieked, then coughed like thunder. She reached out from under his jacket and grabbed for the knife that had fallen next to his leg.

“Oh—no, no, it’s okay. I want to help. Are you hurt?” He tucked the knife into his camera bag. Paula’s camera bag.

She thrashed and threw his coat aside, reaching for him.

“Stop!” He grabbed her arms. “Where are you from? Did you get lost in the storm?”

How had she survived and not Paula? Why not Paula?

She leveled her eyes at him. He felt the hair on his arms rise in her yellow glare. She began to shake.