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better for everyone if the girl died before they found more wicked, violent people. It wasn’t even that Lucy thought of killing Rachel, exactly. She knew how awful that would be, what a betrayal, and how disappointed and repulsed Truman would be if he knew she even thought such a thing. She was just trying to work it out in her mind, the true value of Rachel’s warm breath, the heat of her blood, the wetness of all her flesh. How did it add up to more than her and Truman? What could Rachel do that they couldn’t? How would she be so deficient if she were like them? Was it just the screwing? Lucy knew how the parts were supposed to fit together, though she had no specific memory of how it felt—only vague impressions that it was a very pleasant thing, but as brief as it was sweet. No, she didn’t want to die so those two could screw some more.
    Truman distracted her by standing up and slamming his book down on the table. Lucy looked up at him. He glared at her—or the closest his gentle features came to a glare. She hoped he knew her well enough to see she hadn’t been thinking of hurting Rachel, but his look said he knew her thoughts had been heading down familiar tracks of frustration, rage, and blame. His look was quite unfamiliar, as though he would not tolerate such thoughts. Lucy rather liked seeing that in his face, as much as it startled her.
    “Nothing’s her fault,” Truman said quietly but firmly.
    Lucy considered him a moment. “Why do you get so, so…” Again she couldn’t think of the word, so she made a gesture with her hand, lifting it palm up, then lowering it in front of Truman. “Like this? Over her? Why?”
    Truman sat back down, still staring at her, though his look was softer. He took her hands in his. “Because she’s our friend. She needs us,” he said.
    Lucy nodded. All right. It wasn’t the girl’s greater value, it was her greater need. That made some sense. And it was good to see Truman finally getting worked up. It’d give both of them a better chance, if ever there were trouble.
    “I like her, too,” Lucy said. “Both of them. I just don’t always understand them. And I need you too, you know.”
    “I know.”
    “So if there are bad people out there, promise you’ll do what I say. Promise. What I say, not what Will says. I promise to help her, however I can, but now you promise to listen to me.”
    He looked into her eye and didn’t pause for too long. “I promise,” he said.
    Lucy got up and walked around the table, holding on to it as she did so, for the ship was rocking more and more. The storm must’ve arrived. She sat next to Truman, resting her head on his shoulder.
    “Too much talk,” she said. “I need rest.”
    Lucy closed her eyes. She was denied sleep, as always, so she just sat there, thinking, though the thoughts were calmer now. Truman was right not to blame Rachel. Everyone had to hold on to whatever amount of life they had left in them, and they had a right to expect their friends to help them do so. Lucy felt more at peace now that she’d stopped thinking how she and Truman might die, focusing instead on how they might get to kill some bad people who tried to hurt them.
    She went over all the weapons in the main cabin—the knives and frying pans would be the easiest and quickest, if the attack were sudden. If she had a few moments to prepare, then there’d be the broom and mop handles that could be snapped and plunged into someone’s chest, throat, or eye. That made a lot more blood than just smacking someone with a pan—so much of it, and so hot, sticky, and sweet. And of course—teeth were the best of all, when there was blood flying around. That would be as glorious as she remembered, and she snuggled up closer to Truman as she let such thoughts caress and soothe her.

Chapter 6: Rachel

    She wasn’t part of the equation anymore, Rachel figured. Funny to think of that, how they’d go on without her. Even when she’d been well, there