Page 154 of The Love Haters

In response, he limped over on three paws, settled next to me, and licked my face for a while. It was surprisingly comforting—and it made us both feel better.

And that’s how we fell asleep, right there on the floor.

WHEN WE WOKEagain, it was day. The sun was out, the sky was cloudless, and the ocean surface was as calm as a pond.

Almost as if the sea was exhausted, too.

Or maybe ashamed of its tantrum.

George Bailey woke up when I did. I checked his paw, and then he watched my attempts to clean myself up a little—partly in hopes of feeling more normal, and partly to be presentable for any rescue that might happen to come along. I washed my face and brushed my teeth with bottled water. I combed my hair. My jeans were wet, and so were my shoes, but I didn’t have better options there. Though I did change into a safety-orange T-shirt of Hutch’s for visibility.

I looked out the shattered window. Except for the debris floating all around us—a beer cooler, a sideways mini fridge, a half-full three-liter soda bottle—everything was weirdly normal.

I walked out toward the living room to investigate, feeling like I had the worst hangover of my life. I’d thrown up so many times in the past twenty-four hours, I lost count. The whole place looked about how I felt—food everywhere, broken furniture, glass from the shattered window. I felt a strange urge to clean up.

I needed to sweep up the glass for George Bailey’s paws’ sake. Iopened a kitchen closet to look for a broom—and guess what I found? Hutch’s penny jar. Unbroken, with the lid on, and all of his mom’s pennies. It was half-full. Maybe forty or fifty pennies? I grabbed the jar and took it out with the broom.

George Bailey was watching me from the bedroom doorway.

“What?” I said. “These are coming with us when we get rescued.”

As I swept up, despite feeling like I’d been trampled by some panicked herd of animals, I also couldn’t deny one very joyful fact.

We’d survived.

Also: everything was over!

Except… maybe not everything.

The floor did seem to be at a funny angle, now that I’d swept it up.

I looked around. One side of the boat was definitely lower than the other.

I made my way to the back deck—where I was confronted with two facts in rapid succession. One: we were definitely far, far out at sea. And two: one of the pontoons was partly detached from underneath. With a gash along it that had to be letting in water.

Were we… sinking?

I checked the horizon for some land.

Not much land out there.

I don’t know why my first thought wasflare gun. I’ve never shot a flare gun in my life. But I went to the first-aid closet, got it out, and had it pointed toward the sky before it occurred to me to try my cell phone.

It was still dry, inside its little plastic bag. Chalk one up for the dispatcher.

But would it get reception? We could be halfway to Antarctica by now.

I turned it on… and YES.

I called 911 again.

A woman dispatcher answered. “911. What’s your emergency?”

I was, honestly, so moved and overjoyed and discombobulated to hear a human voice that I burst into tears. And then I apologized.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, not even sure myself what exactly I was sorryfor. For having a problem? For interrupting the dispatcher’s day? For having failed to get George Bailey off the boat? For throwing etiquette to the wind and calling twice in a row?

Anything was possible.

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