Day twelve. The water from the rainstorm will buy us a few more days if we ration correctly. Yannis wanted to gather what was in the raft bottom, but Geri said no, we don’t know how much seawater got mixed in. We can’t take a chance. Drinking seawater is potentially deadly. It leads to muscle spasms, confusion, and, of all things, dehydration. How strange, Annabelle. So much water everywhere, and all of it undrinkable.

We have also suffered another small casualty. The handheld fan. It died an hour ago. Geri had been holding it up to little Alice’s face when the blades stopped. Most of us were watching, and a few of us groaned. Lambert groaned the loudest.

“You wasted it,” he said.

“Shut up, Jason,” Yannis said.

Earlier this morning, Geri, Yannis, Nina, Lambert, and I sat outside the canopy while the Lord slept underneath it. We don’t stay outside for long, as the sun is brutal. But we wanted to speak where he couldn’t hear us.

“Do you think he created that rain?” Yannis whispered.

“Don’t be stupid,” Lambert said.

“We still don’t know how he survived in the ocean,” Geri said.

“He got lucky. So what?”

“He gets hungry and thirsty like we do,” I said.

“And he sleeps,” Yannis added. “Why would God sleep?”

“What about Bernadette?” Nina asked.

“That’s hard to explain,” Yannis admitted.

“No, it isn’t,” Lambert said. “What did he actually do?”

“He brought her back to life.”

“You don’t know that. She could have woken up on her own.”

“She did die a day later,” Geri said.

“Yeah,” Lambert added. “Where’s the miracle in that?”

“The rain could be a coincidence,” Yannis said.

“Then how come it hadn’t rained before?” Nina said.

“But why would God stop it when we needed it most?” I asked.

“Read the Old Testament,” Lambert scoffed. “God is fickle, mean, and vindictive. Another reason I never took to religion.”

“You’ve read the Old Testament?” Geri asked.

“Enough of it,” Lambert mumbled.

Jean Philippe crawled out from the canopy, so we stopped talking. He wants to believe what he chooses about his wife’s passing. We should respect that.

Meanwhile, I fear Nevin is slipping badly. He is quite pale and his leg wound, despite our best efforts, is only getting worse. An hour ago, when I began writing you, I heard him call my name. His lips were covered with blisters and his voice was feeble and halting.

“Benji . . . ,” he croaked, waving two fingers. “Can you . . . come here . . . ?”

I crawled over to his tall, thin body. His injured leg was elevated over the side.

“What is it, Nevin?” I said.

“Benji . . . I have three children . . .”

“That’s good.”

“I . . . I see you writing in your . . . uh . . . notebook. Might you be able to . . . transcribe a message for them . . . from me, I mean?”

I looked down at my pen and said, “All right.”