The locker contained a jumble of boating supplies: oars, extra seat cushions, life vests, salt-stained jackets, cans of oil, rags, towels, ragged ball caps, a radio, and faded cardboard boxes the size and shape Emilia associated with hardware stores. Morgan rummaged through these until she pulled out a few sheets of sandpaper.

“You really are prepared.”

Morgan turned off the locker light, which was just a lightbulb and a chain. “Keep that in mind if zombies start popping up.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“Although a lot of it depends on if zombies can swim. That would make the boat less effective.”

Are we really talking about the zombie apocalypse right now? At least zombies lacked sex appeal. Even necrophiliacs would agree. “I better grab that patch kit just in case they can’t. Besides,” she added as she left Morgan to access her father’s locker. “Sailboats don’t require fuel.”

“Then I want you on my team,” said Morgan.

“Just because I have a boat? I have other skills, too, you know.”

“Like what?”

“Like . . .” Her voice faded as she turned on her own cobwebbed bulb. Her father’s green jacket waited for him on its hook, along with the canvas bags and odds and ends she’d grown up with. The patch kit sat on a shelf, but she didn’t reach for it. If she moved too quickly, she might jostle his clothing and the familiar smell would summon tears.

A hand settled on her shoulder, but Morgan said nothing.

“How did you and my dad become friends?” Emilia asked eventually.

“He helped me out a few times with my boat. I got it from my uncle when he moved. It was a piece of shit and I was broke, but the engine ran. My parents aren’t big on boats. They’ve got the farm, so I had to figure a lot of it out on my own.”

“I didn’t think my dad knew much about motorboats.”

“He knew the water. That’s most of it really. Especially around here.”

“Did he ever talk about me?” The blunt question would have embarrassed her anywhere else, but here in the boathouse, confronted by the ghost of her father, she couldn’t help asking.

“A little. I didn’t realize you were around my age, though.”

“Always daddy’s little girl,” Emilia said quietly. She grabbed the patch kit and shut the door.

“You ready to do this?” Morgan asked. “We can always come back later. You can borrow my skiff if you need one.”

The inundation of grief receded, but she felt like something raw and exposed left on the sand by the tide. In the shadows of the dim aisle, out of the glare of the June sun, the loneliness that had followed her since his death assailed her. It clawed at her breath, and she closed her eyes in sudden pain.