“Right now, do you honestly give a damn?”

“Come on now,” Patch cut in, “be good fellows and do like the man says.”

Looking askance at one another, the soldiers disembarked. Once Patch and the others had pulled the barrier aside, Michael gunned the engine and roared down the causeway. Rand met them at the shed, shirtless and sweating, a greasy rag knotted around his head.

“What’s our status?” Michael asked, stepping down. “Have you flooded the dock?”

“There’s a problem. Lore found another bad section. There are soft spots all through it.”

“Where?”

“Starboard bow.”

“Fuck.” Michael gestured toward their remaining passengers, who were standing in a group, staring with befuddlement. “Figure out what to do with these people.”

“Where’d you get them?”

“Found them on the way.”

“Isn’t that Winch?” Rand asked. The man was muttering into his collar. “What the hell happened to him?”

“Whatever it was, it wasn’t nice,” Michael answered.

Rand’s eyes darkened. “Is it true about the townships? That they’re all gone?”

Michael nodded. “Yeah, looks like we’re it.”

Greer interrupted: “Michael, I think we need to take extra men up to the causeway. It’ll be dark in a few hours.”

“Rand, how about it?”

“I guess we can spare a few. Lombardi and those other guys.”

“You two,” Rand said to the telegraph men, “come with me. And you,” he said to the woman, “what can you do?”

She arched her eyebrows.

“Besides that, I mean.”

She thought for a moment. “Cook a little?”

“A little’s better than what we’ve got. You’re hired.”

Michael strode down the ramp to the ship. A crane with a sling had been moved into place on the dock, near the bow, where six men in bosun’s chairs hung over the side. At the far end of the weir, men in welding masks and heavy gloves were using circular saws to cut the replacement from a larger plate, sparks jetting from their blades.

Lore, standing at the rail, saw him and came down. “Sorry, Michael.” She was practically yelling to make herself heard over the whine of the saws. “The timing isn’t great, I know.”

“What the hell, Lore?”

“Did you want her to sink? Because she would have. I’m not the one who missed it. You should be thanking me.”

This was more than a delay; it was a catastrophe. Until the hull was tight, they couldn’t flood the dock; until they flooded the dock, they couldn’t fire the engines. Just flooding the dock would take an additional six hours. “How long do you figure to replace it?” he asked.

“To cut the plates, pull out the old ones, lower them into place, rivet, and weld, I’d say sixteen hours, minimum.”

There was no reason to question her; it wasn’t something that could be rushed. He turned on his heels and headed down the dock.

“Where are you going?” Lore called after him.

“To cut some fucking steel.”

* * *

68

The time was 1730; the sun would set in three hours. For the moment, Peter had done all he could. He was well past the need to sleep but wanted a moment to collect himself. He thought of Jock as he walked to the house. He had no particular allegiance to the man; he had been a callow and obnoxious kid who had nearly gotten Peter killed. The rifle was probably wasted on him. But Peter recognized that day on the roof as a turning point, and he believed in second chances.

The security detail was gone.

Peter darted up the stairs and raced into the house. “Amy?” he called.

A silence, then: “In here.”

She was sitting on the bed, facing the door, hands folded neatly in her lap.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She looked up. Her face changed; she gave him a melancholy smile. A peculiar quiet took the room—not merely an absence of sound but something deeper, more fraught. “Yes. I’m fine.” She patted the mattress. “Come sit with me.”

He took a place beside her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

She took his hand, not looking at him. He sensed she was on the verge of some announcement.

“When I was in the water, I went someplace,” she said. “At least, my mind did. I’m not sure I can explain this right. I was so happy there.”

He realized what she was saying. “The farmstead.”

Her eyes found his.

“I’ve been there, too.” Strangely, he felt no surprise; the words had been waiting to be said.

“I was playing the piano.”

“Yes.”

“And we were together.”

“Yes. We were. Just the two of us.”

How good to say it, to speak the words. To know that he was not alone with his dreams after all, that there was some reality to it, though he could not know what that reality was, only that it existed. He existed. Amy existed. The farmstead, and their happiness in that place, existed.

“You asked me this morning why I came to you in Iowa,” Amy said. “I didn’t tell you the truth. Or, at least, not all of it.”

Peter waited.

“When you change, you get to keep one thing, one memory. Whatever was closest to your heart. From all your life, just the one.” She looked up. “What I wanted to keep was you.”