But Mia is only one hallway back. She stands before a door. A door that turns out, upon closer inspection, to be welded shut. “We need to go, sweet pea,” he says and places a hand on her shoulder. “We need to go now. Please.” She resists him one more moment before following.

“What’s behind that door?” Jack asks and Kenny says, “I’ve asked, but nobody’s been able to tell me. It’s just a place nobody goes no more.”

23

Nora leaves Kenny at the docks, handcuffed to the railing. The patrol boat they steal is painted black with a small cabin topped by a gun turret. A light rain falls as they motor out of the inlet and into the dark chop of open water. She hates boats and she hates the ocean, but what choice do they have? Jack grew up in a family that water-skied in the summers, so he finds his way around the controls without too much trouble.

Navigation is more of a problem. He steers them due east and snaps on the fog lights, encasing them in a hazy glowing globe. The gray bellies of waves roll constantly before them and he keeps the throttle low in case any rocks should rise like fangs from the water.

Nora closes the cabin door and muffles the noise of the briny, seething ocean. Bile bothers her throat. Her arms are out to help her keep her wobbly balance. It’s not motion sickness so much as dread. The ocean is chaos. The ocean is a vast unknowing mystery. The ocean is just another version of the black nothing of space and the blazing seed of the comet that ruined everything.

The cabin lights are dimmed to keep the reflection off the windows. The LED strips on the floor and the faint green light of the control panel are all she has to work with when she rips open a cupboard and fumbles past a flashlight, a coil of rope, a box of flares, a flask of whiskey.

“I’ll take that!” Jack says, and she says, “Now’s not the time for you to lose control.”

“Come on. Just a taste. I promise.” He reaches a hand back. “Unless you want me to stroke out on you. Because after all we’ve been through, my blood pressure is through the ceiling.”

“One taste, Jack.”

He snatches the flask from her and unscrews the top and knocks back a drink. “Hallelujah, Jesus,” he says and tucks it into his jacket.

She hoists up the seat of a bench and locates what she’s looking for: the life vests. She pulls hers on and snaps the buckles into place, then yanks the straps until she feels a tight, reassuring hug. Only then can she breathe. She slams one into Jack’s chest and he takes it with a “Thanks,” not really looking, too focused on steering them through the night.