I don’t know how long it’s been since the lights went out. Ten minutes, maybe ten hours. In the dark time drifts away like a life preserver just out of reach and bobbing further out with each wave. The metal deck—which is really the overhead, because we’re upside down, but I’m not going to think about that, Jack said not to think about it but we’re upside down and sinking but I’m not thinking about that at all—the deck I’m sitting on is cold through my dungarees and I can hear water rushing through the bulk head behind me, filling up the ship, bogging us down but I don’t think about that.
Instead I think about how close Jack sits beside me, the warmth where his shoulder rests against mine, the press of his thigh on my leg, and I hug my knees to my chest and close my eyes and see his gray
