At the bow, Willa discovers that the bikes are still secure, but the dock line running from the boat to the ferry pier has broken. Captain Norm warned them to stay on the boat, so she considers ignoring the problem. Except it needs to be fixed.

“We need another dock line!” she yells back at Taylor, but her words get swept away.

Willa slowly works her way back to the cockpit, where she rummages through the storage locker for one more length of rope.

“A line snapped and we need to replace it,” she yells to Taylor. “Do you want to stay on the boat or go up on the pier?”

Taylor points to the pier, and Willa gives her the okay sign. Taylor shimmies beneath the lifeline on the low side of the boat and steps onto the floating dock. The wind tries to push her backward as Taylor forces herself forward. Her hood flies back, making her hair whip wildly around her face.

Both of them fight their way into position. Willa ties off one end of the rope, then tosses the other end to Taylor. The wind snatches it away, and Willa has to gather it back up to try again. On her next attempt, she tries to factor in the wind, but again they miss. Three times. Four times. The rope is heavy with muddy water. Five times. Six times. Willa can barely see through the rain-splattered mask.

“Fuck you, Dorian!” she screams, heaving the coiled rope.

This time Taylor catches it.

Back inside the cabin, they collapse on their bunks, still wearing their weather jackets. It doesn’t matter that the cushions are wet because they could not possibly be any more soaked than they are right now.

“. . . the center of Dorian,” the weather forecaster says, “will approach the coasts of South Carolina and Georgia later today . . .”

This time Willa is too exhausted to scream. She just lifts her arm up off the bunk and extends her middle finger at the radio.

The water returns first, flooding the sound and all the little creeks, lapping at the windows on the low side of the boat. Making it feel like they’re underwater. Like they’re sinking. Willa waits for the boat to right itself, but it doesn’t happen.

We should be floating. Why aren’t we floating?

“Something’s wrong,” she says, moving as fast as she can manage to the companionway. She shoves open the hatch and sticks her head out into the battering rain. Water is spilling over the low side of the boat, trickling into the cockpit. Her mind shifts into overdrive, listing the things they’ll need for a quick getaway and assessing where they’d find shelter if the boat sinks. We might be able to pry the plywood off one of the ticket office windows and smash the glass, Willa thinks, but what if we can’t? Then what?