She had a momentary sensation of striking something with her feet. Then the waves closed over her head. She opened her eyes and glanced around. The water was dark and murky and she could only see a few feet in any direction. Warren thrashed beneath her, his arms and legs flailing weakly. She reached down, grabbed a handful of his hair, and tugged him upward. He extended his arm and she grasped his hand. Together, they kicked for the surface, and emerged, gasping and choking. They clung to each other and treaded water. There was no sign of the others. Gail spat seawater. “Are you okay?” Warren nodded. “You kicked my head when you came down.” “I’m sorry.” “It’s okay. I’m okay. Where are the others? Where’s the…?” She noticed that he couldn’t bring himself to call it an island. Not now. Islands didn’t have eyeballs. They didn’t move when you stabbed them.
