After the Flood. Kassandra montag

must have fallen when trying to scramble under the deck cover with the tackle and bait. I squatted in front of her, kissed my finger, and touched it to her arm. A shadow of a smile flickered across her face. I brushed her hair from her face with my palm, took her head in my hands, and kissed her forehead.

      “We’ll be okay,” I said.

      She nodded.

      “How ’bout you get the bucket and towel. Start wringing the water off the deck. I’ll check the rudder.”

      At the stern, I inspected the rudder and tiller. A crack split the base of the rudder support and it was leaning to the side. Above me, our single sail fluttered in the breeze, a tear down the middle. The bottom yard swiveled in the wind. The storm had taken our punting pole and the tomato plant Beatrice had given us, but the rest of our supplies were stored in the hull or tied down under the deck cover.

      I cursed and rubbed my face with my palm. We were losing time, I thought. How would we get another boat built when I didn’t even know where we were?

      “Oars are still here,” Pearl called to me, her hands on the gunwale, looking down to where the oars were tied tightly to the sides of the boat.

      I shielded my eyes from the sun and squinted against the glint of water, peering east. Or what I thought was east. I glanced at the sun and back at the water. How long had the storm gone on? It felt like forever, but it could have been only a half hour. I couldn’t tell how far west we’d been pushed off our usual course, which was always two miles from the coast, straight north or south, tracking the bits of land that hovered above water.

      Wreckage from another boat floated about a mile east of us, drifting our way. I squinted and grabbed the binoculars from under the deck cover.

      It had been a salvage boat, made from various scavenged materials. A few tires were tied around a base of doors nailed together. A few dozen feet away, the cabin of a truck lay floating on its side, and a bright yellow inflatable raft floated nearby. Plastic bags and bottles were strewn across the surface of the water like trash.

      “Grab the net,” I told Pearl. I hoped there was food or water stored in those bags and bottles.

      “There’s a man,” Pearl said, pointing to the wreckage.

      I peered through the binoculars again, scanning the wreckage. A man clutched the raft of tires and doors, treading water and squeezing his eyes shut against each wave that rolled into his face.

      Pearl looked up at me expectantly.

      “We don’t know anything about him,” I said, reading her thoughts.

      Pearl scoffed. “That doesn’t look like a raider ship.”

      “It’s not just raiders we should fear. It’s anyone.”

      A nervous buzz spread through my veins. I hadn’t brought anyone else on Bird and I didn’t want to now. Someone sleeping right next to us under the deck cover. Sharing our food, drinking our water.

      I glanced at the man and back down at Pearl. She wore the steady expression of already having made a decision.

      “We don’t have enough food or water,” I told her.

      Pearl knelt under the deck cover and pulled out her snake pot, a clay jar with a bright blue glaze. She lifted the lid and caught a small, thin snake just behind its head, its fangs out, its tongue a flickering red ribbon. She held him up to me and grinned. The snake opened and closed its mouth, biting the air. She squatted on the deck, cut its head off, held it by the tail over the water, and pinched it from tail to neck with her thumb and forefinger, draining its blood into the water.

      “We can eat him,” she said.

      She never offered her snakes for meals. I turned back toward the wreckage, the man now only half a mile from our boat. I felt in my bones that he would bring us trouble in some way. Every sinew and tendon in me turned and tightened like rope on a pulley.

      But I couldn’t tell if the panic was from being lost or taking a stranger onto our boat. The fears mixed like blood in water and I couldn’t separate them. I thought I could get us back to a trading post, but if I miscalculated and it took longer than expected and it didn’t rain—I couldn’t stomach the thought of us drying up like prunes under the sun.

      The man was beginning to float away, pulled by a current. Watching him in the water reminded me of how Grandfather would sing “I will make you fishers of men” while he fished the rivers in Nebraska. He’d lean back in the boat, an umbrella propped in the corner to shade him, a pipe stuck in the corner of his mouth, and he’d chuckle to himself as he sang. He always found things both silly and serious. The chorus began repeating in my mind as the man floated farther away, and I felt it as an admonishment. I clenched my jaw in irritation. I had wanted Grandfather to guide me, not haunt me.

      “Grab the rope,” I told Pearl.

      The man was barely conscious, so I jumped in the water and swam to him. I tied the rope around his torso and swam back to our boat. I climbed back onto Bird and Pearl and I hauled him up, bracing against the gunwale with each pull.

      The man carried nothing but a backpack, and when we got him on the deck he sputtered and coughed up water, lying on his side, almost curled in the fetal position. Pearl crouched next to him, peering into his face. His dark hair fell loose and disheveled almost to his shoulders. He had a broad chest, long strong limbs, and skin darkened by the sun. He wore the rough-hewn look of someone accustomed to sailing alone. Despite this, he was handsome, in a still and solemn way, like a photograph of someone from another era. When he opened his eyes and looked at me I was startled by their light gray color.

      “Sweetie, grab a water bottle,” I said.

      Pearl leapt up and got the water. I leaned forward to dribble a few drops onto his lips, but he jerked away from me.

      “It’s water,” I said gently, holding the bottle in front of him to show him. He reached for it and I pulled it away.

      “I’m going to give you just a little. We don’t want you throwing up.”

      I knelt forward and dribbled a few drops on his lips. He licked the water quickly and looked at me, a pleading expression on his face. I poured more water in his mouth, half the bottle, my stomach clenching as I did so, and I thought about the heat, the water bottles we had left, and the miles to shore.

      The man lay back, closing his eyes, leaning against the gunwale. Pearl and I let him doze. Pearl and I caught what we could from his wreckage in our net and sorted it on the deck. Not much of use. A few bottles of water, two spoiled fish, and a bag of dry clothing. We fished spare wood from the water to use for rebuilding the rudder. We tied his raft to the stern of Bird so we could tug it along behind us like a caboose in case we ever needed it.

      I brought down the sail and examined the tear. When I finished mending it two hours later, it was uneven and puckered along the tear, but it would last until we got to shore and I could trade for more thread and material.

      I walked over and kicked the man’s shoe. He startled awake, his hands out in front of him.

      “Almost dusk,” I said. “Can you skin two snakes?”

      He nodded.

      Pearl brought the bucket of coals over to where the man lay, near the mast step, and poured them in a flat pan, the kind we once used to make birthday cakes. We were lucky it wasn’t windy tonight. When it was windy we’d have to eat raw or dig into our stores of dried meat or flatbread. I sat in front of the pan with a box of kindling, arranging the twigs and leaves on top of the coals. Pearl lit it with her flint stone and knife.

      “You didn’t have to. I’m grateful,” the man said. He had a soft, clear voice, like distant bells.

      I was trying to decide if we should tie him up while we were sleeping. The uneasy feeling in my gut wouldn’t loosen.

      “Can you help me hoist the sail?” I asked.

      “Gladly,”