And Hubert …
I wobble to my feet. My legs are already weakening, my vision zooming in and out of focus before finally stabilizing on an object farther down the shore.
A hull.
Or half of one, resting on a crescent of wet sand.
Hubert.
I thump to my knees and crawl to his remains. “Morning, Bert,” I manage.
And lose it.
I bawl until the tide rises, then, as I hold Hubert down so the sea won’t wash him away, I form my first truly coherent thought: I need to bury him. Give him a proper goodbye.
I drag him onto safe, dry sand, and stagger around to face whatever lies behind me.
And what do you know.
There’s a house on the rocks that looks suspiciously like M.M.’s.
Then there’s me. Standing. On a shore. The shore. After sailing Hubert seven days out into the sea, plus however much time has passed since, I’m back. Waterlogged but alive.
Which begs the question: How in the fucking world?
Did I swim? Did I cling to Hubert and drift on some lucky waves? And even then, shouldn’t I have thirsted to death?
I rack my brains, trying to remember something, anything, but all I’ve got are muggy memories of drowning.
Chasing after the hows drains me, so I focus on the shoulds. I should be ecstatic. I should be grateful I’m not a bloated body in the sea. I should rebuild Hubert. Try finding Kay again.
Instead, I feel nothing.
I’m back.
I’m fucking back.
I failed the greatest mission of my life, the one goal that kept me going day after day, and I couldn’t even die in peace. I’m back to exactly where I started: marooned, color-blind, memory-less. I’d be furious if I weren’t so fatigued.
“All right, Cee,” I mutter as the clouds move in—not enough to visibly dim the beach but enough to chill me. “So what if you’re back? You’re a pro. You know what to do. Climb the ridge. Find the pieces. Build. It’ll be easier than before. Trust me.”
The pep talk fails. I let out a strangled chuckle, self-pity tears leaking from my eyes. Who am I kidding? I spent months digging through rusted piles of junk, looking for a single propeller. There’s no workable metal left. Not enough for a whole boat.
Wiping my eyes, I look up, in the direction of the house.
No metal?
No problem.
“Strongly disagree,” intones U-me when she finds me crouched by the porch, prying at the wooden steps with my bare hands. “Strongly disagree. Strongly disagree.”
“For Joules’ sake, shut up.”
U-me goes silent.
I cover my face and exhale into my palms. “Sorry.” It’s an apology to U-me and to the porch. After everything M.M. has given me, this can’t be how I repay her. “I’m sorry.”
U-me doesn’t say anything, just rolls close.
Uncovering my face, I rise. “Stay,” I order, heading across the beach. U-me follows. “Really, stay! I’ll be back this time.”
But when I make it to the end of the sunken pier on the west side of the coast, I’m not so sure if I want to go back. Everything’s still gray, including the water lapping over the pier planks. I’ve stepped off the end before to swim. I don’t want to swim anymore. I want to sink. The memory of pain returns to my lungs, and I can almost feel them filling again. It’ll suck. A lot. But then things will go still. Tranquil. Easier than this.
Megajoules. What am I thinking?
I get to my knees and dunk my head into the water. The salt stings my lips. I part them to scream.
Nothing comes out.
No point in screaming if there’s no one to hear.
I say her name instead. Kay. I ask if she’s out there. If she knows I tried—really, really tried—to find her.
And if she’d forgive me if I don’t try again.
* * *
In the end, I don’t bury Hubert. Feels wrong to trap a part of him on this island when at least one of us can be free.
“Goodbye, Bert,” I say, releasing him.
The waves carry him out. For a second, regret fills me like wind in a sail. It blows me deeper into the water, after Hubert. I’ve changed my mind. I want to bury him. Keep him near, in case his other pieces wash up.
The ocean reclaims him before I can.
I stumble to a stop. Foam rises around my knees, pulls away. Sand slips out from under my feet. I keep my footing. I stay until the gulls circling me lose interest. They go home and I do too.
The fifty strides from shore to house feel closer to a hundred. My calves burn as I climb the sandy steps to M.M.’s porch, and as I clutch the rail for support, I find myself eye level with the tally marks, all 1,112 of them.