Page 36 of Swept Away

I can’t bear this. I know Zeke needs rest, and I should really be out here watching for boats, but I don’t want to leave him alone. I don’t want tobealone. I want to get off this boat, off off off offoffit, and as I press my hands hard against my face, I think to myself,Would I survive if Zeke was gone?

Yes. I ball my hands into fists. I would survive. Iwould. I’m strong. I’m still here. I would do what I had to do, just like I did when I stitched Zeke’s skin up.

I reach into the holdall again and find the hard edge of one of the logbooks. It must have slid fully into that inside pocket as I dragged the bag from the wardrobe. I pull it out and let it lie on my knees, smoothing the surface of the leather cover.

Just don’t read them, OK?he said. But why? This is a ship’s log—won’t it contain information about the houseboat? It might tell us the exact capacity of the water tank, something we’re always trying to guess at; it might say there’s a phone hidden in some other secret compartment Zeke’s dad created way back when. It’ssomething, and we have so little out here.

I’ll just look. I’ll flick open the first page. It would be crazy not to. I’ve got to be sensible—I can’t be sentimental. Zeke is injured. There is no room for emotional decision-making right now.

I open the book.

It’s obvious within just a few pages that this isn’t really a logbook—it’s a diary. I scan pages of cramped, tiny writing:The rain is endless today, and the sound on the tarp reminds me of camping in the garden with the boys, Lyra refusing, of course, sitting indoors watching Charmed…I ate well tonight, a stew. The children wouldhave hated it no doubt, too many vegetables…If I had known sooner, would it be different, could it be different, I wonder?

I should stop reading. There is no detail about the boat here. But I keep turning the pages, telling myself I’m just scanning for information, not really reading, not really taking in anything personal.

There is such a freedom to this life. No tethers. Only me, the water and my puzzles. I am doing just fine today. Even the problem with the sump for the shower hasn’t got me down—the valve needs replacing, but I keep forgetting because the children have been here. I know I’m getting it wrong with the three of them, I can feel I am, with Zeke especially, but of course, he’s different…

I blow a loose strand of hair out of my face. My heart thumps as I scan on.

Paige thinks I should tell him the truth…I sometimes long to, but I know when he finds out, he’ll never come back to this boat, and…

“Fuck,” I whisper, slamming the book closed.

Why have I done this? I hate secrets. Knowing things I shouldn’t stresses me out, and there’s plenty of stressors in my life right now—I do not need an extra one.

Eugene suddenly lets out an outraged squawk. I startle, then turn to glare at him.

“What?” I say.

He stares back at me with his judgmental little bird eyes.

“You know what?” I say to him. “You should just go. We should just chuck you back into the bloody ocean. We can’t afford to keep giving you stale bread. We need the stale bread, OK?”

He remains infuriatingly unblinking.

“This isn’t some CBBC show,” I tell him, my voice rising. “You’re not our cute animal sidekick. Scram. Scram!”

I’ve started to cry.

“I know you can hop around,” I yell at him. “I’ve seen you do it so you can shit on our sofa cushions. Get out of the box. Go. Just go.”

“We gave him food, so he’ll probably stick around as long as possible now,” comes Zeke’s mild voice from inside the boat.

I spin around, wiping my face, shoving the logbook back into my bag.

“What are you doing up?” I say with horror, standing and yanking the door open to find him leaning against the kitchen counter again, head bowed, a fresh towel bunched up beneath his T-shirt.

“I needed the bathroom,” he says.

His voice sounds too light and breathy. He turns his head to look at me, still bent over, forearms resting on the counter’s edge. “We need Eugene. He’s good for morale. He’s our therapy animal.”

I want to say,Lie down. Please. Rest. I am so, so afraid you’ll die. But instead I say, “Bloody hell, could you be any more Gen Z?”

He chuckles slightly, then winces. I think he’s swaying more than he should be, even taking into account the movement of the boat.

“He’ll be well enough to hunt fish for himself soon—look, he’s on the move,” he says, nodding behind me.

I turn. Eugene is right by my feet, taking uneven steps and letting out a faint, chattybok boksound, like a chicken.

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