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.Haiti steals sodas from us; we steal ’em right back.Only in Miami.I turn to share the joke with Gillian, but to my surprise, the only thing there is the flashlight—sitting on the ocean floor, pointed up at the Coke machine.Confused, I glance around the ship.No one’s there.Above my head, the door of the machine continues to swing with the tide.“Illian.?” I whisper through the mouthpiece, though I know she can’t hear me.Spinning around, I crane my neck in every direction.A cold wave of water shoves me in the chest.I don’t understand.Gillian’s gone.Reaching down, I grab the flashlight and shine it out across the horizontal plane.In front of me, a trail of bubbles leads straight to the boat’s two-story cabin.The door’s missing from the doorframe and the glass has been pulled from the porthole windows, but even from here I can see how dark it is.I shake my head to myself.No way I’m going in there.A minute later, the trail of bubbles is long gone.And still no Gillian.I shine the light at the doorframe of the cabin.No movement.No puffs of air.Slowly, I swim closer, mentally replaying every teenage slasher flick I ever laid eyes on.At the door, I hammer the flashlight against the metal hull.It clangs with a low vibration.There’s no way she’d miss it.Not unless she was stuck.or needed help.I kick my flippers and glide through the door.The light flicks around, but it’s still hard to get my bearings.It’s a small galley—big enough for three or four people—and the sink, the stove, even the countertops are all on their side.In the corner, a ladder that usually runs up to the second floor now runs horizontally.Same with the stairs that go down to the cargo hold.The ceiling’s on my right; the floor’s on my left.When I look up, two empty wood cabinets sway open like the Coke machine.In between them is an open porthole window.Weightlessness hits hard and the room starts to spin.I do my best to follow the bubbles, but the confined space is getting the best of me.The walls ripple like they’re made of mercury.It’s like looking through melted glass.My stomach cartwheels and the taste of vomit bites me in the back of the throat.Oh, God—if I puke in the airhose.Frantically, I spin to my left, searching for the door.Instead, I’m face-to-face with the linoleum floor.It doesn’t make sense.I wheel around, but nothing’s familiar.The whole world kaleidoscopes as light-headedness sets in.I grab my chest, panting like a rabid dog.I swear, the room’s getting smaller.And darker.Everything—in every direction—it all goes gray.A sharp jab hits me in the back and two arms lock around my chest.We flip sideways and I’m not sure which way’s up.The impact knocks the flashlight from my hands and it tumbles in slow motion toward the bottom.As it falls, the whole room flickers like a disco.Fighting free, I spin back and face Gillian.I can barely see her through all the bubbles.Her arms thrash wildly, gripping and grabbing at the front lower part of my vest.It’s the only thing holding my air in place.Why’s she trying to unhook it? Panicking, I hold her by the wrists.She digs in her nails.Refusing to give up, she comes at me again, clawing in a mad rage.But this time, I get a look at her eyes.“Please.trust me,” she begs with a glance.Desperately, her hand charges out.A plastic hook flips open, and my weight belt falls away.In a blur, Gillian grabs me by the lapels and shoves me backwards.Following her gaze, I look straight up—and just as I see the open porthole window—she finally lets me go.Without the weight belt, I rise like a human cork.She gives me a final tug to make sure I don’t bang the tank on the way out, but after that, I’ve got a clear shot to the surface.Swimming madly to catch up, Gillian points to her mouth, reminding me to breathe.I let out a huge puff of air and stare up through the water.Black becomes dark blue becomes sea green.She grabs my hand to make sure I don’t rise too fast.Don’t blow it now, Oliver.Breathe, breathe, breathe.We crack the surface and the cool night air whips against my face.Next to me, Gillian’s already inflating her vest.“You okay? Can you breathe?” she asks frantically as she swims to my side.Holding me up, she hits the button on my inflation tube and the vest starts to hiss.It hugs my ribs and squeezes my stomach.Right there, I dry-heave, but the vomit never comes.“Is that better? Are you okay?” she asks again
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