Cover

Title Page

Dedication

To Janine, Trisha, and Connie, who show me, every day, the stunning power of belief

One

Sea

When we pulled him from the water, he didn’t have a scratch on him. That’s the first thing I noticed. The rest of us were all gashes and bruises, but he was unmarked, with smooth almond skin and thick dark hair matted by seawater. He was bare-chested, not particularly muscular, maybe twenty years old, and his eyes were pale blue, the color you imagine the ocean to be when you dream of a tropical vacation—not the endless gray waves that surround this crowded lifeboat, waiting for us like an open grave.

Forgive me for such despair, my love. It’s been three days since the Galaxy sank. No one has come looking for us. I try to stay positive, to believe rescue is near. But we are short on food and water. Sharks have been spotted. I see surrender in the eyes of many on board. The words We’re going to die have been uttered too many times.

If that is to be, if this is indeed my end, then I am writing to you in the pages of this notebook, Annabelle, in hopes you might somehow read them after I am gone. I need to tell you something, and I need to tell the world as well.

I could begin with why I was on the Galaxy that night, or Dobby’s plan, or my deep sense of guilt at the yacht exploding, even though I cannot be sure of what happened. But for now, the story must begin with this morning, when we pulled the young stranger from the sea. He wore no life jacket, nor was he holding on to anything when we spotted him bobbing in the waves. We let him catch his breath, and from our various perches in the boat, we introduced ourselves.

Lambert, the boss, spoke first, saying, “Jason Lambert, I owned the Galaxy.” Then came Nevin, the tall Brit, who apologized that he could not rise for a proper welcome, having gashed his leg trying to escape the sinking vessel. Geri just nodded and balled up the line she had used to tug the man in. Yannis offered a weak handshake. Nina mumbled “Hi.” Mrs. Laghari, the woman from India, said nothing; she didn’t seem to trust the newcomer. Jean Philippe, the Haitian cook, smiled and said, “Welcome, brother,” but kept a palm on the shoulder of his sleeping wife, Bernadette, who is wounded from the explosion, badly wounded, I believe. The little girl we call Alice, who hasn’t spoken since we found her clinging to a deck chair in the ocean, remained silent.

I went last. “Benji,” I said. “My name is Benji.” For some reason my voice caught in my throat.