“By the time we get to Florida, the storm will be long gone,” she said, then put in her earbuds, blocking out the sound. Blocking out Taylor.

Taylor tried to apologize that morning, but Willa was still too angry to listen. Ever since, they’ve been skirting around each other in the cabin, and when they stop to refuel, do laundry, or buy groceries, they split up until it’s time to start moving again. As though they’re taking separate trips aboard the same boat. They have no lasting memories of South Carolina. No adventures. No Taco Sundays. The silence has grown, brick by brick, into a solid wall. Willa knows this is not what Finley had imagined, but maybe she and Taylor just aren’t meant to be friends.

Now, a third of the way through Georgia, Willa’s phone vibrates on the cockpit bench beside her. Wyatt gave her one of his old smartphones, and even with a spiderweb crack in the corner of the glass, it’s still nicer than the one she threw in Lake Erie. She’s been able to take pictures and text them to him—and seeing his dimples on the lock screen makes her smile every time. His text says: Are you listening to the weather right now?

Not at the moment.

Where are you?

Middle of nowhere, Georgia. Population: 2.

Across the cockpit, Taylor’s phone starts blowing up with incoming texts. Willa glances up in time to see Taylor’s mouth fall open. Her eyes are huge and round and scared. “Captain Norm says the tropical storm made a sharp swing north.”

Dorian has been upgraded to a cat 3, expected to hit between Savannah and Charleston. Seriously, Willa, where are you?

Willa catapults through the companionway and cranks up the volume on the radio.

“. . . maximum sustained winds have increased to near 115 miles per hour with higher gusts. Little change in strength is expected before the center reaches the coast, then weakening after the center moves inland. Hurricane-force winds extend outward up to twenty-five miles from the center and tropical-storm-force winds extend outward up to one hundred miles . . .”

The forecast makes it official. Dorian is heading toward land, and Whiskey Tango Foxtrot is in its path. As Willa’s internal organs rush headlong into panic mode, her brain freezes. She’s always known a hurricane was possible, but she figured it wasn’t probable. She has no survival plan for this.

“The governor of South Carolina has issued a mandatory evacuation order for coastal areas,” Taylor says. “And the governor of Georgia is recommending the same. Willa . . . what are we going to do?”

Returning to Savannah would be putting themselves directly in Dorian’s path. They could try to make it to Brunswick, but they’ve been fighting gusty winds and a strong current all day—and there are only a few hours before dark.

“Norm wants to know our exact location,” Taylor continues.