“A teacup of water is all it takes.” Anyone who lived on the water had a story to tell about someone who’d drowned in little or no water.

Ann planted her palms on the sand, fisted them, and then pushed up until she stood. She wobbled, shoved back her hair, and licked the salt water from her lips. “I’m fine.”

“You are not.”

She swayed. “Why do you care?”

That was a good question with no answer. “Come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“Back to my cottage. You can sit on the sleeping porch until your head clears.”

Chest heaving, she shook her head. “I don’t need your charity.”

“Edna would not be happy if I let you get injured.”

Mention of Edna triggered grumbling complaints followed by staggering steps. Once Ann tripped and fell to her knees. Carlotta cursed, questioned her sanity, and raised the woman to her feet.

Ann’s body suddenly convulsed; she jerked away, and this time when she doubled over, she vomited. The scent of sour gin drifted upward as Carlotta stepped back, giving her room. Finally, breathless, Ann sat back on her heels and dragged the back of her hand over her lips.

“Can you walk?” Carlotta asked.

“I think so.”

She took her arm and again pulled upward. “We’re almost there.”

“Why are you helping me?” Ann asked, her voice ragged.

“That’s a good question.” Hearing the bitterness sharpening her words, she added more quietly, “We have all been in bad places.”

“I’m not in a bad place.” In the next step she turned, dropped, and vomited again. When the retching finally stopped, Ann’s face was ghastly pale, but her bloodshot eyes were sharper.

Silent now, Ann rose and followed without any more complaints. When they reached the sleeping porch, Carlotta retrieved a robe and ordered Ann to undress. When she unfastened the buttons of her dress and peeled the fabric away, she exposed several bruises on her back and upper arms. The fabric fell into a pool around her ankles as Carlotta wrapped her in a dry robe, lowered her into a chair, and handed her a glass of water.

“Sip it slowly,” Carlotta warned. “Edna would not appreciate you getting sick inside her house.”

Ann took a small sip and then pressed the cool glass to her temple. “No, Edna would not like that.”

A reddish-blue bruise darkened over a fading yellow smudge on Ann’s thigh. Carlotta wasn’t surprised to see evidence of old injuries. Peter Manchester wasn’t a kind man, and his temper wasn’t limited to drunken nights.

“I fell,” Ann whispered as she covered her thigh with her robe.

“I’m not judging you.”

“Of course you are.” She swallowed, pushed sandy, wet bangs off her forehead. “Everyone judges.”