Page 150 of The Love Haters

Should I call Beanie?

But she was worse in emergencies than I was. She’d panic, and then she’d cry, and then I’d end up consoling her. All that would do was waste time.

Instead, I pulled out my cell phone and called 911.

A dispatcher picked up right away. “911. What’s your emergency?”

“Hi there!” I said. “I’m so sorry, but I’m on a houseboat calledRue the Dayat the Sunshine Marina on Key West, and the dock we were moored to just got struck by lightning—and it collapsed into the water.”

Yes, the name of the boat had a sudden new irony.

“Your location is the Sunshine Marina?”

“Yes—but not for long. We are adrift.”

“I’m making a note of your distress call and your location,” the dispatcher said then.

Wait—what? Why wasn’t she dispatching someone to come help?

“Um,” I said then. “Can you guys come and get me?” I asked next. Then I added, as if it might help my case, “I have a large dog with me who’s afraid of thunder.”

A pause that might have been sarcastic. Then: “I’m sorry, ma’am. We’re in the middle of an active hurricane.”

“Yeah! I know! I’m drifting loose in it!”

“No rescues are happening at this time. All personnel are sheltering in place.”

Did her voice sound a little irritated? “Are you saying,” I asked then, “that you’re just going to leave me here? In the ocean? During a Category Four hurricane?”

“The hurricane has been downgraded to a Category Two.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Wind speeds for Cat Twos top out at ninety-five miles per hour.”

“Why is that not comforting?”

“I apologize, ma’am. But anyone who ignored the evac order will just have to ride this one out.”

Hold on. Did she think I had justfloutedthe evac order?

Of course she did. She probably dealt with people like that all the time.

“I didn’t ignore it!” I said. “My dog did! And he’s not even my dog! I was just trying to help him because he’s a rescue dog from a puppy mill, and he has thunder-phobia, or whatever it’s called, and his life has been hard enough.” Then, to stress that I was a nice person who deserved tonot die in the ocean, I added: “Iwasevacuating! I had already made it to Islamorada! But then I turned around! To save a very frightened dog! But then I couldn’t get him off the boat! He literally weighs more than I do!”

Silence on the other end. Was she checking her Instagram?

“Hello?” I went on. “I’m not a—a—non-evacuator! Thedogis!” I said, my voice shifting into a different octave.

Her voice was unmoved. “I’m sorry, ma’am. All personnel are unavailable.”

“Look,” I said, hoping maybe I could access some general sense of first-responder camaraderie. “This houseboat belongs to a US Coast Guard rescue swimmer—and so does the dog! He got dispatched to Miami to wait out the storm.”

“Then I’m sure he’ll be the first one back on scene to rescue you once it’s safe to fly,” the dispatcher said.

“But—” I protested, my voice lifting higher with panic as I pushedWe could be long dead by thenout of my mind and said instead: “Tell me what to do! How do I survive the night?”

The dispatcher sighed. “If that boat you’re on really belongs to a rescue swimmer, it’ll be well-equipped with safety gear. Find a life jacket and put it on. Turn off your phone to save power, put it in a plastic bag, and keep it with you. Find someplace secure and hunker down. And if it’s a choice between you and the dog? This time, save yourself first.”

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