“It’s a bunch of bullshit,” I say, and they all turn to look at me. “People die. The sea is dangerous.” My mouth suddenly feels like it’s full of sand, and the words come out rougher than I intend them to. They’re gritty on my tongue. “You don’t need a reason to drown.”

“That’s true most places.” Cole gives me a look, almost like the two of us are sharing some kind of secret. An inside joke I don’t quite get. “But Whisper Cove is different.”

“He’s right about that.” Jude glances around at the rest of us. There’s something I can’t read in his big brown eyes. “You’ll see for yourselves.”

The fire pops and crackles.

The waves moan.

The beach is alive with night sounds. Singing frogs. The buzz of insects.

And the clanging of safety buoys. They ring like alarm bells.

But nobody speaks for a long minute, and then Jude mentions that it’s getting late. And we have to be at breakfast early. So we all get to our feet. Start to gather up our stuff. Val pulls on her jeans, and most everyone wanders down to the water’s edge to collect the things they discarded there. Shirts. Socks. A sweater or two. Val is shaking the sand out of her hair, and I see Jude say something to Lex as he goes to pick up his scarf. The quiet way Lex laughs lets me know it was a joke meant just for him.

I don’t have any clothes to collect, so Cole and I stay behind with the heat of the fire between us. A smothering fog has started to roll in off the water. I feel it clinging to my skin.

He reaches up to run a hand through that dark, wavy hair, and I notice a little tattoo. Some kind of four-point star on the inside of his wrist. He catches me staring.

“It’s a compass rose,” he says, and he moves around the fire to show me. “I got it last year when I was sixteen. Used a fake ID. One point for each direction. See? North, south, east, and west.”

“Cool,” I say, and I glance toward the water. I can hear Lex giggling now, but I can’t see him anymore. I can’t see any of the others. The fog has settled like a curtain between us.

Cole is studying me again. His eyes are gray. The color of smoke. Or ash. “Sailors thought a compass rose tatt was good luck,” he says. His voice comes from deep in his throat, and there’s an almost-hypnotizing ebb and flow to it. The words move against my ear with the rhythm of the waves. “They thought it would protect them. Keep them safe at sea.”

“Are you a sailor?” I ask, and he laughs.