On deck, Taylor has the tiller trapped between her knees as her thumbs fly over the keyboard of her phone. Behind her, the wind ripples across the water and her hair is tied up in a knot to keep it from blowing in her face.

“Would you mind driving while I take off the sails?” Willa asks.

“Yeah, of course. Which way are we headed?”

“Inland. There’s a shrimp dock where we might be able to tie up.”

Willa removes the jib and mainsail, folding them into their canvas bags and stacking them in the v-berth. She removes the boom and lashes it to the deck. She ties extra lines around their bikes so they won’t blow away and brings the gas cans into the cockpit. Down in the cabin, Willa rinses the dishes and stows away anything that could become a projectile in a storm, including the Finley mermaid and Taylor’s snow globes. She puts fresh batteries in the flashlight.

“We’re coming up on the shrimp docks,” Taylor calls. “It looks like most of them are taken by shrimp boats.”

There are a few shrimpers on deck here and there, prepping the boats for the coming storm. They pause to stare as the girls motor past, their expressions curious or surprised or interested in a way that makes Willa feel naked. She knows she shouldn’t assume the worst about strangers, but there’s nothing comforting about docking here.

“I don’t like this,” Taylor says, her voice low. “I mean, I’m already worried about the hurricane.”

Willa nods. “We’ll find another place.”

But as they follow the bends and curves, there are no homes with docks like in South Carolina or town docks. There aren’t any towns. Willa consults the chart book again. “We’re running out of real estate. The only thing I see between here and the Atlantic is the Sapelo Island ferry dock.”

“It will be dark soon,” Taylor says. “Let’s just go there.”

The sun is nearing the horizon when they arrive at the south end of the island. The ferry pier is empty and the ticket office windows are boarded with plywood. There are a handful of cars in the parking lot, but no one is around. It reminds Willa of something out of a zombie movie, and she half expects the undead to come shambling out of the trees.

“We’re closer to the ocean than we should be,” she says. “But hopefully we’ll be protected in the lee of the island.”

Taylor looks doubtful. “Hopefully.”