The Sea in Winter: Chapters 21–28

Our neighbors in room 205 are awake, and they are watching an action film with car chase scenes. I know this because I can smell their microwave popcorn, and I can hear the tire-screeching noises and instrumental sound effects and gunfire. All trumpets and percussion and bullets.

I cross my arms over my chest in a feeble attempt to keep myself warm.

I move briskly down the walkway, advancing toward the alcove near the stairwell, my ghost breaths trailing behind me.

There are two vending machines snug against the wall, both of them illuminated in a fluorescent radiance, shiny with their rows of brightly colored snack wrappers and bottled sodas.

There are two vending machines snug against the wall, both of them illuminated in a fluorescent radiance, shiny with their rows of brightly colored snack wrappers and bottled sodas.

My fingers feel numb as I unlock the door. I fumble slightly, inching my way back inside with less stealth than before. The door latches behind me with a clunk; my sheepskin slippers flop over as I step free of them.

“So. If—theoretically, okay—I were to go down to the lobby, grab a bag of popcorn, pop said bag in the cafeteria microwave, and then bring it back up here...would you and I be able to finish it? Without waking those two up?”

Jack squints at me. Skeptical. “Are you sure? You really think we can kill an entire bag of popcorn, in secret, just the two of us?”

In the morning, Connor blinks and rolls over and stretches his arms, his small knuckles grazing the headboard behind his mountain of pillows. He blinks again. Yawns. And as he looks around the motel room, his eyes watering from yawning so big, he says, “Are we having popcorn for breakfast?” His voice is raspy.

I stare at my phone, watching in helpless awe as Eva bombards me with GIFs and images of New York City: the flashing billboards of Times Square, the bustling streets and yellow taxicabs, the mint-green Statue of Liberty.

Frantic, I hit the back arrow at the top of the touch screen and scroll down to our thread of messages. I stare at the words Happy Valentine’s Day! Miss you so much. The queasy guilt makes my stomach churn.

I’m sitting in the armchair by the open window, watching the slow turn from indigo to periwinkle dawn to light gray morning.

I look up. The stump is broad and gnarled and cracked. The color of its wood reminds me of resin. A warm, amber tone.

I look up. The stump is broad and gnarled and cracked. The color of its wood reminds me of resin. A warm, amber tone.

If your pointe shoes are too slippery or satiny, you can walk over to the trays, step into them, and grind the resin dust into the smooth fabric. It will help you gain traction.

“It’s called a nursery stump,” Mom tells me. “See the tiny little saplings and green sprigs growing out of it? It’s become a home for other plants. Pretty cool, huh?”

Some small critter skirts through the undergrowth nearby, rustling through the leaves.

“This beach was one of our settlements for whaling expeditions. And there were a lot of families here. A lot of lives were lost.” Fear slithers down my spine. I glance around at the seemingly peaceful woods.

“This beach was one of our settlements for whaling expeditions. And there were a lot of families here. A lot of lives were lost.” Fear slithers down my spine. I glance around at the seemingly peaceful woods.

And the waves keep rolling in, folding and foaming and smashing. They topple over sharp boulders that protrude from the shallows.

And the waves keep rolling in, folding and foaming and smashing. They topple over sharp boulders that protrude from the shallows.

I feel a twinge just above my kneecap, but it only lasts a second. Not like my other muscle spasms.

As Mom continues to lead the way, I discreetly pull my phone out of my pocket. Check for notifications. Nothing. No service.

She was young and lonely and grieving. It was the hardest time of her life, and having me there only made it harder.

Cold, briny gusts whip my hair behind my shoulders, tug at the sleeves of my jacket, at the little pink pom-pom attached to my beanie.

We catch glimpses of the Strait of Juan de Fuca, which is also shrouded in patches of mist. Like tufts of clouds that have somehow become stranded on earth.

We catch glimpses of the Strait of Juan de Fuca, which is also shrouded in patches of mist. Like tufts of clouds that have somehow become stranded on earth.

There is a map of the area, some historical and ecological information, an excerpt on the Cape Flattery Lighthouse on Tatoosh Island, and some reminders to be respectful of the wildlife, and to closely supervise young children.

The fog has rolled even farther back, a clouded gray wall miles off the shore. There are still tendrils of mist threaded through the evergreens that rise along the surrounding bluffs.

And then the impossible happens. My foot catches on a root. There is a split second of unstoppable momentum. A white-hot zing of pain.