“I told you that roast beef sandwich on the plane wasn’t a good idea. The mayo on there was fun-kay.”

My gut burbles in response, and I clutch my stomach.

When I was eleven, one of our dogs, a Lab retriever mutt named Daisy, got into a box of doughnuts and wolfed down a full dozen before my dad came downstairs and discovered the explosion of powdered sugar and cardboard remains scattered across the kitchen. Daisy spent the rest of the morning outside. Feeling sorry for her, I kept her company as she toddled around our sweeping field of a backyard and chomped mournfully on mouthfuls of grass, gait shaky, eyes glassy.

Daisy, I feel you, girl. Because right now, I am totally you postdoughnuts. And the way the floor won’t stay still is not helping.

“It’s fine. I’m fine. I’ll find us a seat.” I should have taken some Dramamine as a precaution, and maybe some Pepto, but it’s too late now. My meds are packed away in my checked luggage and our suitcases haven’t been transferred to the ship yet.

Walsh bounds across the room to the bar where half a dozen guests are seated on stools, sipping fresh cocktails. My sea legs are still on backorder, so I stumble through the curved navy sofas and swivel chairs. Every piece of furniture is bolted down and forms a ring around a small, central raised platform. I sink onto an unoccupied sofa near the back and pull a small field notebook and pen from my pocket. Time to distract myself with work.

What do I observe about the guests? About the ship so far? I tap my pen against my lips.

Most of the people in the room are probably my parents’ age or slightly younger. There are a few twenty- and thirtysomethings and a solid number of retirees. No kids. I know from dipping into our booking system that the ship is only two-thirds full, so roughly sixty passengers on board. There’s a buzz of collective anticipation that has my nerves jittering. I begin jotting down notes.

A roll of laughter makes me pause, pen gripped in my fist. A familiar masculine voice reaches my ears. I twist, slowly, but I already know who it is. My spine tingles.

Graeme is in the lounge.

“Thanks for your time, Gustavo. This was a real pleasure,” he says. I can only see the top of his head. Another man is blocking my view.

The other man claps Graeme on the shoulder. “The pleasure was all mine.” I vaguely recognize him from the staff bios in my pretravel documents as Gustavo Santos, our cruise leader, aka the person responsible for planning each day’s activities and making sure the entire voyage goes off without a hitch. Next to the captain, he’s in charge.