*Isla*
“Where are we going?”
I ask the person who is grasping my hand now, but there’s no answer. It’s not my mother. I know that much. The grip is tight and painful, and Mom would never hold onto my hand so tightly.
In response, I hear a voice that sounds like it’s coming from beneath the waves say, “You have to stay with me, Isla.”
“But why?” I ask. Glancing down, I see that my feet are not on the ground anymore. When I stepped onto the wood of the dock, going out onto the boat, my feet never made contact with the ground again, and now, I am floating away, up into the sky.
The only thing that seems to be tethering me to the ground is this person whose face I cannot see, whose grip is so strong, I can’t break away from it.
“Because… you must,” is all the person says.
I can’t tell i
