The ship is somewhere past the middle of the Atlantic now. Six days out, eight to go. The water past the stern rail goes black and then blacker. There is a small wake of phosphorescence trailing behind the ship and it is the prettiest thing she has seen in six months and she cannot make herself feel it.
She is at the rail. Pale green wrap dress, plain leather sandals, hair down for once. The thin gold chain at her throat catches the deck lights when she moves. Her hands are flat on the rail. She has been standing in the same place for nineteen minutes. She knows because she counted. She has been counting things for six months.
Footsteps behind her. Heavy. Unhurried. She does not turn.
He stops. He does not crowd her. There is a careful distance between them — close enough that he is not yelling, far enough that she does not feel cornered.
A glass of water appears on the rail next to her hand. Just water. No ice. He sets it down without saying anything. She looks at it. She looks at him.
He is holding his own glass of water. He is looking at the wake, not at her.
She picks up the glass. Her hand is steady. She has gotten good at that.
"Thank you." Her voice is low. The Guyanese coast in every vowel.
She drinks half of it. She sets it back down on the rail. She does not leave. She does not look at him again either. She goes back to the water.
A beat. Two. The ship moves under them.
Then, without turning her head, in that same soft musical voice: "You have been on this deck three nights now."
