Alone in the blackness, Will called upon his own God to lend a hand, reciting the Lord’s Prayer silently. He’d almost forgotten the words, and he feared the Deity was a bit upset with him for not having kept holy the Sabbath Day for several years, for failing to honor his father and mother, and most of all, for repeated fornications. Yet, a merciful God surely would forgive him those and other trespasses and not allow him to die. The thought of death had not occurred to him until now; it had come with nightfall, it was in the cuddy with him, but he could not imagine or accept that the treasury of his future, which had seemed inexhaustible when this day began, was now drawn down to a few hours or less. Drawn down, moreover, by an addled Cuban kid avenging his sister’s loss of a chastity she had not possessed in the first place. It could not be, it must not be, that Will would lose his life for that, for an illusion, while the man who had stolen Elvira’s honor in the most brutal way possible went on living. That was too unjust to contemplate; worse than unjust, it was ridiculous.

As these reflections tumbled through Will’s head, the pain in his middle parts climbed up and up the scale. It reminded him of the hurricane; just when he was sure it could get no worse, it got worse. Finally, he felt as if someone were tearing his entrails out, and he clenched his teeth until he thought he would grind them to powder. Then he opened his jaws wide and screamed.

There came the sound of footfalls on deck, and of voices. Nat’s voice, Eliot’s, Drew’s, Elvira’s … “Will, what is it?” … “Let’s see what’s wrong.” … “Get him out of that sweatbox.” … “Fresh air.” …

Someone took him by the ankles, someone else crawled inside and lifted him off the bunk. He was dragged outside under the mainsail, and he screamed again from the rough handling.

“Will, what happened? Was it a nightmare? Say something.”

It was Nat. His eyes shut from pain, Will said, “Cold,” for he was, suddenly.

“Cold?” asked Nat. “It’s hot as blazes tonight.”

Opening his eyes, he saw Elvira, kneeling over him.

“Frío,” he said to her. “Soy frío.”

She got up. He heard her muttering to Luis. Soon, she returned and laid something over him, something heavy and stiff—a sailcloth. Looking past her face, toward the zenith of the sky, he noticed a bright star. Which one was it?

“Will, c’mon. Tell us what it is?”

Nat again, kneeling beside Elvira.

“Hurt,” Will said.

“Where?” asked Nat, sounding panicky. “What does?”

Will laid a hand over his stomach and tugged at the sailcloth, but he didn’t have the strength to remove it. Better tell them now, while I can, he thought.