Page 27 of One Last Chance

“Maybe some bruised ribs, and my shoulder took a hit, but I’m fine.” For now. Gurgling from somewhere above suggested the boat gulped water somewhere. But so far his ears hadn’t popped, so no depth pressure yet.

Oh, so much to look forward to as he slowly asphyxiated. Or drowned.

“What happened?”

Maybe she was trying to keep him talking—probably not a terrible idea, given the fact that at least he’d know how far he’d sunk. When he lost transmission, well, he’d lose any chance of contacting Moose too.

“There’s a storm coming through the area, and my team went out to rescue some fishermen. The boat got swamped.”

“Are you alone?”

“Just me and Davy Jones.”

“Who?”

He laughed. “You know—the pirate? Dead pirate? Captain of the Flying Dutchman?”

“Oh.” Silence. “That’s . . . not very funny.”

“That’s all I’ve got.”

“That’s pitiful. Okay, listen. Can you swim out?”

He frowned. “Not in seas with thirty-foot waves, and fifty degrees. You sawTitanic,right?”

“Jack could have totally fit on that door.”

“Right?”

“But then Rose would have had to marry him, and maybe he was just the holiday-romance guy and not the real guy.”

“The holiday-romance guy?” He found a jug of water and uncapped it.

“You know, the guy who’s lots of fun but deep down can’t make a commitment.”

“Maybe she was the holiday-romance girl.” He took a drink, wiped his mouth.

“Rose was still trying to figure out who she was. At least Jack knew—he was a guy just trying to figure out how to survive.”

“So which one are you? Jack or Rose?” He put the cap back on.

“I don’t know. Rose, maybe.”

A sigh on the other end.Interesting. “So, who are you, Sparrow?”

“I’m a . . . researcher.”

“What are you researching?”

A pause. Outside the window, bubbles rose, which meant that air below him was escaping.

He pressed his ear to the ceiling boards. Sloshing. The more water that spilled in, the heavier the boat would get.

“Um, the migratory patterns of wolves?”

He leaned against a pole that connected to the bench seating above. “I have a friend who does that—her name is Peyton. She’s from my hometown.”

Another pause, this time so long that his voice held the smallest edge of panic when he keyed the mic. “Sparrow? Are you there?”

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