She had spotted oil drums, net floats, a few planks that might or might not have been decking. She stood upright on the roof and gave the horizons a surprised stare, as though she suddenly realized that a trick had been played on her. Colette gathered her dark hair and pulled it to the top of her skull until her scalp hurt. All the water looked the same, and she had the plummeting feeling that she had been floating over the same area for two days, drunk on the fantasy that everyone would be found alive. She wondered if the others thought she was a silly, grieving woman, too stubborn to give it up and head for shore. She raised her head to the sky and looked for planes. Where were they looking? What did they think, those navigators?

She knew she was tired, and she went down into the cabin. Emile was seated at the wheel, looking at a photograph he had taken from his wallet, which rested open in his lap. It was a cracked black-and-white photo of a younger Etienne, grinning, of course, wearing a big overdecorated football jacket buttoned up high. Emile was mourning now, and she sat back, afraid. Looking to the stern, she could see Victor urinating overboard, holding himself with one hand, the binoculars with the other, searching north.

*   *   *

The sun came down like a decision they all had to deal with. At dusk they turned for the tug, which had come into shallow water and dropped anchor. The Gulf was as calm as a pond. Emile guided the crew boat around to the big boat’s stern and tied off his bow, mentioning lightly to Colette as he handed her onto the rail of the tug that he was nearly out of diesel and would have to be towed back to town.