He opened his eyes, stared up at the ceiling over the bed for a moment, and then turned on his side. Where was he? He was freezing. Florida, that was it. He could hear sand, that fine white quartz sand for which the area was famous, blowing against the window. He tried to get up, but his head was spinning. It had been years since he’d had a genuine hangover. He got himself upright, sat on the edge of the bed facing the window until he found his balance, then stood and opened the drapes. It was after seven, but so cloudy, there wasn’t much more light out there than there had been at midnight when he and Jane had finished the last of their drinks and somehow—he wasn’t yet clear on the specifics—made it back to the Gulf City Hotel. The chairs and tables and umbrellas had been removed from the patio, and the sand was rising in swirling clouds that looked like ghosts, dancing above the beach.

In the bathroom, he decided having a hangover wasn’t so bad. There was something about the dazed, muffled way his mind was functioning that was restful. True, his life was rapidly becoming an empty shell, but in his current condition, he could appreciate how much more free time that would leave him.

As he was returning from the bathroom, he noticed that Jane was sleeping in the other double bed, wrapped up in blankets against the chill of the broken air conditioner. It came back to him then, the way they’d crawled back into the room and she’d collapsed on the bed, and asked if he minded if she slept there. “I don’t think I can move,” she’d said, and then immediately added, “In other words, I don’t want to be alone.”

He was beginning to fall back into unconsciousness when the phone rang. Jane groaned and draped an arm over her eyes. “Gerald?” she asked. “Is everything all right?”

It was Chloe, clipped and wide awake, clearly not hungover at all. “I tried calling Jane,” she said, “but she isn’t in her room.”

“I know,” Desmond told her. “She’s here. What’s up?”

“She’s there? Well, whatever.” Her mother had called her an hour ago to tell her that she’d been watching the Weather Channel and thought she should get on a plane before they closed down the airport. There was a chance of flooding. There were high wind warnings. She paused and waited for Desmond to respond, and when he didn’t, she said, “And I’m just not convinced this project is worth the risk, Desmond. I’d recommend you rethink your plans.”

The rats were leaving the ship, wise creatures. “I’ll take it under advisement,” he said.