He scrambled up onto all fours, reaching out with one hand for something to steady himself with as the boat pitched violently to the side. He called out, “Mom!” “Marco!” His mom sounded very close, so he reached out. His fingers brushed an arm, so he grasped and held on, pulling. “Dad?” The voice attached to the arm was tearful. And girly. Marco quickly let go of Sarah. “I’m not your dad.” “Marco!” A hand gripped his shoulder and he quickly grabbed it. “Mom?” “Yes, it’s me, sweetie.” Her voice was shaky. “I have Nacho’s hand. John?” John answered, “I have Sarah! Yvonna, where’s your hand?” Marco heard a crash as something fell. His mom sounded frantic as she asked, “Do we have everyone?” John said, “I think so. I saw a flashlight in the kitchen, you all stay right here.” The storm had increased in intensity and Marco could hear only the howling wind and rain driving against the boat, which all the while rocked violently from side to side as the front rose up, up, up—then dropped, forcing Marco to let go of his mom.
