Chapter 5
Now
Annie wakes.
She expects the slatted cedar walls of Amphitrite’s berth, the rise and fall of tide beneath her. Instead: solid earth, painted white walls, a pine tree brushing against the
window. She’s in a real bed. These moments around sleep have jagged edges. Before sleep or just after sleep, she inhabits
a place where her entire world hasn’t ended. Then her mind orients painfully, remembering where she is, what day it is, what
happened.
Then she recalls the boy down the hall in the living room. That sweet thrumming is gone. She throws on one of Ruth’s sweaters
and tiptoes out into the hallway.
He’s no longer on the couch where they left him, attached to the bag of fluid on the lamp pole. She runs her hand over the
blanket that’s been left scrunched in a heap. It’s cool and empty. Loose IV tubing snakes between her bare feet on the floor.
As she steps toward the window, she spots him swimming in the sea, at least a hundred metres from the cabin. The tide is lowish,
garbage rolling in the distant surf. His head bobs in the water. She presses her palms against the windowpane, as if she could
rescue him again from here.
“Did you sleep?” Ruth is up. She stands over the kettle, a dish towel in one hand and her amethyst-coloured mug in the other.
“He’s swimming.” Annie’s eyes are glued to his shape in the water. “Why is he swimming?”
“He was out there when I woke up. I went down ten minutes ago.” The kettle whistles sharply. “But he was too far out to hear
me. He looks stronger than we thought.”
“It’s freezing out there.”
“It’s freezing in here.” Ruth pours hot water. “Do you want some tea?”
Annie strides to the door and pulls on her boots. “Do you think he knows about the undertow?”
She’s out the door before Ruth has a chance to respond. She needs him to not freeze or drown, firstly. And she wants to know
why he’s swimming. She wants to know everything about him.
It’s the first time in days Annie has thought about anything except what happened. She climbs down the rope ladder and out
onto the sand. A thin layer of mist hovers over the water. Pebbles press through the soles of her boots.
The sea has not returned her parents. But there’s this boy. His long arms arc through the swells. His shoulder blades move
back and forth with each stroke.
Annie sits on the packed sand next to his discarded shirt. Her questions trip over each other: Who is he and where did he
come from? Will he stay? And why does she care so much if he does?
Eventually, he wades out of the water, wearing the shorts from last night, hair dripping. Goosebumps cover his torso, but
he isn’t shivering. He looks right at her, his expression untroubled.
“What were you doing swimming so far out?” Annie asks.
He sits down, his body dwarfing hers. He can’t seem to figure out what to do with his legs, bending and unbending his knees, trying to figure out how to arrange his feet.
Eventually, he mimics Annie’s crossed legs.
And there’s that sound again. Why does the humming feel so good?
It washes over her scalp and melts across her shoulders.
“Where did you come from?” she asks.
Still nothing.
He shifts until their arms touch. He’s warm. She likes the feel of him, the subtle pulse underneath his skin.
More than anything, she wants to hear his voice, as if the humming might be explained if she could hear him speak.
She tries again: “I’m Annie.”
Maybe he’ll talk if she’s patient enough. She waits, staring at the sand, at the flecks of rock and plastic. A hollow mussel
shell cradles a bent paper clip and a piece of orange sea glass.
“You were walking on the beach. Then you passed out,” she tries. She’s telling the story all out of order.
She waits some more.
“Walking,” he says, enunciating the syllables, emphasizing the walk. His expression is gentle; he almost smiles.
Annie is drawn to his square jaw, the breadth of his shoulders. His eyes feel a bit too widely spaced. Water drips down his
neck.
“Yes, walking,” she echoes.
“Walker,” he says. His voice is deeper than she expects it to be. A river where she can’t touch bottom.
His hum spirals back around and lands in the bottom of Annie’s belly. She almost recognizes him. She forgets, for a split
second, her parents. Amphitrite. All the destruction.
But then, a breeze brushes against her face. Smoke rises in the distance, likely from the fires they’re using in Hale’s to
incinerate bodies and garbage.
“Did you get thrown off a boat?” she asks.
He searches her eyes. Tiny shifts of his grey irises.
“What happened to your clothes?” Her voice is an octave higher than usual. “Can you understand me?”
His eyes descend to watch her lips.
Maybe he doesn’t speak English? “Are you alright? Do you have a name?”
He blinks but doesn’t move. “Walker.”
“That’s your name?”
“Annie,” he says.
The shape of her name as he says it feels fluid and rounded, the nicest way it’s ever been pronounced. She wants a name to
call him, too. He breathes in and out; it reminds her to do the same. Has she been breathing before this?
“We can call you Walker for now?”
He looks at her and a deep stillness takes hold. She should feel awkward, this close to a stranger, a boy—-well, technically
a man—-looking at her so intently. But instead, she feels settled and clear. Her words seem pointless, and they float away
with the crash of waves.