At the Water's Edge by Sara Gruen

anyone else. He and Hank may have told me that nothing would happen to us, but I was the one who’d chosen to believe them.
    â€œEllis,” I said, as he turned to go. “I’m sorry.”
    â€œAbout what?” he asked, stopping.
    â€œThe things I said.”
    He laughed quietly. “Which ones?”
    â€œAll of them. I was just so frightened.”
    He came back and sat on the edge of the bed. “No need to apologize. I just hadn’t realized I was married to quite such a firecracker.”
    He laid a hand on my cheek, and my eyes welled up. I hoped I was wrong about how people over here would perceive him, but if I was not, I hoped I could somehow protect him from their judgment, make him unaware, or better yet, not care.
    â€œI wasn’t myself,” I said.
    â€œNone of us was, my darling.”
    â€œExcept Hank,” I said, sniffling. “Hank was himself the entire time.”
    â€œAh yes. Dear old Hank. Ever the pill,” he said, getting up. “Speaking of which, do you think you need one?”
    â€œNo, I’m all right.”
    That was my cue to offer him one, and I would have, except that I had no idea where they were and didn’t have the energy to look.
    â€œSleep tight, my darling. Tomorrow, Hank and I will find a decent hotel, and then all you’ll have to worry about is regaining your strength.”
    He picked up the candle and went to the door. I rolled to face him.
    â€œEllis,” I said as he stepped into the hallway, “this feeling of still being at sea—do you think it’s normal?”
    He paused before answering. “Perfectly,” he said. “It will be gone in the morning. You’ll see.” He closed the door.
    As I lay in bed, I could no more stop the waves than escape the images and sounds of the wounded being marched down the gangplank, one after the other, in a seemingly endless line.

Chapter Eight
    I woke up to the sound of a bloodcurdling scream, and it was a few seconds before I realized it was coming from my own throat. My eyes sprang open, but it made no difference. None. The black was impenetrable, the pitching violent.
    The engine wasn’t running. Why wasn’t the engine running?
    Even if the whooshing in my head had been shrill enough to drown out the sound of the turbines, nothing would have been able to disguise the vibration. The thrum had been relentless—rattling brains, teeth, and eardrums, just like the propellers of a plane—and its absence was terrifying.
    I’d been dreaming that the SS
Mallory
took a direct hit, but now I realized it wasn’t a dream. The cabin rocked madly, almost as though the freighter was turning, rotating like a corkscrew as it slid below the surface.
    â€œEllis?” I cried out.
“Ellis?”
    I felt the blanket on either side of me, but he wasn’t there, which meant he was lying injured somewhere on the floor, thrown on impact. I had to find him fast, because the cabin had tilted so drastically I wasn’t sure how much longer I’d be able to find the door.
    I slapped the surface and edges of the bunk, hoping to identify which direction I was facing, and hoping Hank was trying to find his way to us as well, because I didn’t think I could drag Ellis out on my own.
    When my hands hit a wooden headboard, I was momentarily confused. When I found a bedside table with a lace runner, I fell onto my back, gasping with relief.
    I wasn’t on the SS
Mallory
. I was in a bed in a hotel room in Drumnadrochit, and the motion was all in my head.
    I reached over and felt my way across the bedside table, seeking the candle before remembering that Ellis had taken it with him the night before. I got to my feet, thinking that if I could just find the dresser, I could then find the door. I had taken only a couple of steps when my foot landed on something and twisted out from under me. I fell on my hands and knees.
    The door opened, and a