Where is my brother? Is he sitting in one of those makeshift tents or canvas roof–covered shacks riding out the storm? Or is he somewhere else entirely, safe from all of this? I’ve already lost most of my family. I can’t bear the thought of losing him, too.

I was never one for church save for Christmas and Easter, the times my mother insisted I go so we could be seen in the pews, but I revert to prayers I’d long since considered forgotten, the words sticking in my throat amid all the fear there.

Sam enters the room, his footsteps hard against the wood, causing the floor to shudder.

And then I realize that, of course, it isn’t Sam at all. Something else entirely is making the house move.

The ground quivers beneath us.

“What’s that?”

“The wind and the water,” Sam replies, his voice grim. “The ocean is threatening the house. We need to get out of here. They’re sending a rescue train to the station in Islamorada to get the veterans out. We need to get on it.”

If my brother is indeed at one of the camps, at least he will be ferried to safety. And if he’s going to be at the station in Islamorada, maybe I’ll see him there.

“Evacuation might be our only prayer,” Sam adds.

“How far is it to the station?”

“Not far. It’s our best chance.”

“Is that what everyone has decided?”

“No. No one else wants to leave. They’re worried it’s too dangerous out there, that we won’t be able to make it to the station.”

“And you want to go out in that? Maybe they’re right to stay put.”

“We don’t have another option,” Sam protests. “The inn isn’t strong enough to withstand this kind of weather, and I don’t think the worst of the storm is even here yet. There’s not enough elevation between the ground and the sea—there is no higher place we can go to. The train is it. We have to try to outrun the storm. The water is already spilling out onto the road.”

It was difficult enough driving back from the camps yesterday in a heavy rain. This is something else entirely. And at the same time, I’ve never been one for sitting around letting calamities befall me. If there’s a chance of us surviving this, I’m going to take it.

“I’m with you. Let’s catch the train.”

“Good. I’m going to go back and see if I can convince anyone else to come with us. Why don’t you throw some clothes in a suitcase in case we’re gone for a few days?”

Sam leaves me, and I nearly run up the stairs, more debris hitting the house in loud thuds. I quicken my pace, making my way to my room first, wrenching open the armoire in the corner and throwing a few clothes and underclothes into my little satchel, adding a few toiletries. I take the old photo of my brother, the letter he wrote me postmarked from Key West, and add them to the bag.

A clap of thunder makes me jump.

The voices arguing downstairs mix with the roar of the storm as I walk next door to Sam’s room.

Unlike me, Sam never bothered to fully unpack, some of his clothes still shoved in his black suitcase, others hanging haphazardly in the armoire that is nearly a twin to mine. It’s strangely personal to go through his stuff in such a manner, but I pull out some of his shirts, pants, my cheeks burning as I add his underclothes and set them on the bed, making room in his bag for the essentials.

Papers fall from Sam’s suitcase in my haste. I scoop them up quickly, my heart pounding, the storm breathing down my neck. I shove them back into the case.

“Are you ready?” Sam yells up to me from the stairs.

“Almost,” I shout back.

I bend down and pick up the last piece of paper.

The image is familiar enough—my face, smiling, the night of my official presentation to society. A copy of it sat framed on my parents’ mantel in our old apartment overlooking Central Park.

How did Sam end up with it?

I set down the picture on the stack of papers I disturbed earlier, lifting another one, heat rising as I scan the words written there.

“Elizabeth.”

I whirl at the sound of Sam’s voice.

He stands in the entryway of his room, his gaze on the papers in my hand. “I can explain—”

“Who are you, and why are you following me?”

Nineteen

Helen

I sleep restlessly, my dreams more of the same strange flashes and images that have accompanied me for most of my pregnancy; this time there is one important variation—I am the one on the boat, the seas swelling around me, water pouring over me in an image that is so realistic, I swear I can feel the ocean spray against my legs, my body rocking and swaying as it did on the ferry the day before.

When I wake, I am disoriented, a banging sound off in the distance. I roll onto my side to the area where Tom would normally lie, expecting to see his body beside me. Instead, there is merely empty space, and at once, I realize I am in Islamorada, at the cottage my aunt Alice found for me, Tom hopefully far away from here.

I rise from the bed, surprised my nightgown is damp, an ache in my back and belly, my body covered in a thin sheen of sweat. My muscles are sore, tension filling my limbs, and I grip the mattress for support as I attempt to get my bearings.

There’s a damp spot on the mattress where I lay, and for a moment, my heart stops when I glance at it, expecting to see blood once more. So many of my earlier pregnancies ended like that—a spot of blood in the morning on the sheets when I woke that signaled another baby was not meant to be.

But this time, there’s no blood, only clear liquid.

It seems like—

It seems like my water has broken.

It’s too early. I’m not prepared, I—

The pain hits me, the dull ache that has plagued me for days sharpening to something far less bearable. I wince, gripping the mattress with one hand, the other wrapped around my stomach as my body bows forward to lessen the pain.

I ride the wave of the contraction, my legs sagging beneath me as I fall to the floor. The pain seems unending, but eventually it disappears, the sensation lessening until it subsides to the constant sense of discomfort I’ve felt for the last few days.

How much longer until Alice arrives?

The banging sound returns, louder than it was a moment ago, and I stumble over to the cottage’s shutters, staring out to see what’s making that noise. A wooden plank whizzes past me.

I slam the shutter closed.

Another contraction begins.

I clench my teeth through the pain, wishing I had something to bite down on, wishing—