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I sat listening to the sleet.

My burns killing me.

There was no movement on my side of the deck.

I opened the door, stepped out into the cold, motes of ice needling my face.

I walked back to the sternside of the galley, crouched by the steps that rose to the lounge and pilothouse. Portside, three cars were parked along the railing—a Honda, a Cadillac, and an old Dodge pickup truck the color of a zinc penny save for its rusting blue doors.

The Kites had left the truck.

I peered around the steps.

They stood at the bow, their backs to me, gazing north across Hatteras Inlet. Rufus, his white hair twisting like albino snakes in the wind, was pointing west at an inconsequential landcrumb, dry and visible only for moments at the nadir of lowtide.

The Kites and I were the sole passengers on deck.

I made my furtive way to the navy Honda at the rear of the Kites’ three-car line and ducked under the backend. Through the side mirror I glimpsed the reflection of its driver, sleeping, his head resting against the window. I crawled between the Honda and the railing amid a brief spate of sleet, finally reaching the next car in line, a Cadillac, its passengers having retired to the lounge.

I leaned against the back bumper to regain my breath. Glancing under the sedan, I saw the three pairs of legs still standing by the canvas-lattice gate at the bow.

I crept on.

My scorched clothing did little to shield me from the piercing cold, and I was shivering violently by the time I arrived at the back of the Kites’ truck.

The tailgate was closed, the truckbed covered by a bright blue tarp.

The seagulls had discovered the Kites and besieged the bow of the ferry, their lamentations cut and diminished by the gale. I crawled to the driver side door, peered through the glass. The cab was empty. Violet had to be in the truckbed.

I noticed a pistol and a pumpaction shotgun in the floorboard, tried the door but it was locked.

I sensed movement, looked up.

Rufus walked quickly toward me, just three steps from the passenger door.

I hit the ground, rolled under the truck as he pulled it open.

Staring at the corroded innards of its underbelly, warm motor oil dripping on my throat, I heard Rufus shout, "You want the whole loaf, Beautiful?"

Then the door slammed and I watched his legs propel him back to the bow, a bag of squashed bread dangling at his side.

Get Violet to the Impala before you do anything.

As the gulls regressed into a ravenous frenzy I wriggled out from under the truck. Their squawks and the engines and the moan of the wind masked the grating squeak as I lifted the handle and lowered the tailgate.

Still fettered with duct tape, Violet lay unconscious on the rusty truckbed in a smattering of damp pineneedles and splinters of bark—remnants from a load of firewood.

While the Kites fed the seagulls—three breadbearing hands thrust into the sky—I climbed into the truckbed, took Violet by the ankles, and pulled her onto the tailgate. Breathless, on the verge of blacking out, I lifted her from the bed and set her gently on the concrete deck beside the railing. She stirred but did not wake. I closed the tailgate and proceeded to drag Violet by the shoulders toward the end of the line.

Exhaustion stopped me beneath the driver side window of the navy Honda. Fighting pain, I stared at the dozing driver, his face still pressed against the window, drool sliding down the glass. I willed his eyes to stay shut.

At the Honda’s back bumper I glanced up to the bow, saw the Kites’ attention still engaged with the feasting birds.

I slung Violet over my shoulder, struggled to my feet, praying no one in the observation lounge would see us.

A dozen tenuous steps and we’d reached the Impala.

I stowed Violet in the back seat and climbed behind the steering wheel.

Sleet pouring faster than it could melt, ticking madly on the roof.

It stopped.

In the east, bits of early morning indigo showed through, the clouds cracking like ancient paint.

As the sky aged through warming shades of purple into oxblood,