Eleven months and three weeks ago today, Concertina and Swiftboat of the Castigators went out on a routine rescue call to Point Scranton, one of the new coastal towns at the edge of the rising Atlantic Ocean. The call came in over their belt radios—something about a capsized ferry on the way to Jersey Island.
They should've been surprised when all they found at the rescue coordinates was me...but they were too busy being assholes, as usual.
Swiftboat did his patented running on water bit, moving so fast as he zipped toward me that his feet never had time to sink. "What the hell, Skillet? You make a wrong turn on the way to the weenie roast?"
Concertina chuckled on her blood-red jet ski. "Where's the ferry? Did you already set it on fire? Was that your solution to the sinking probl
