F O U R
We all scan the horizon desperately, and finally, on the right, we spot a narrow inlet. It leads into the rusted shell of an old boat terminal.
“There, on the right!” I say to Ben.
“What if they see us?” he asks. “There’s no way out. We’ll be stuck. They’ll kill us.”
“That’s a chance we have to take,” I say.
Ben picks up speed, making a sharp turn into the narrow inlet. We race past the rusted gates, the narrow entryway of an old, rusted warehouse. As we pass through he cuts the engine, then turns to the left, hiding us behind the shoreline, as we bob in the water. I watch the wake we left in the moonlight, and pray it calms enough for the slaverunners to miss our trail.
We all sit anxiously in the silence, bobbing in the water, watching, waiting. The roar of the slaverunners
