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spoke in hushed tones about the view—or lack of it—out the porthole windows. As Noah passed, he heard one suggest the Old Man was plotting his course using dice. “Mr. Holden, please set a course heading for…” The crew member picked up his empty coffee cup, shook it, and slammed it on the tabletop. He tipped the cup back and peeked under the lip. “Yahtzee degrees!” His companions at the table laughed weakly, one, he thought it might be Michael Yeong from Portland, rubbing at his temples like he wanted to touch his fingers together by pushing them through his skull.
    A senior deckhand named Henry Gutierrez looked up from his plate. Noah nodded at him. Henry blinked and his head whipped around, following something Noah couldn’t see. He wiped a hand down his face and returned to studying his lunch.
    Noah stepped in and grabbed a cup from the stack beside the coffeepot. He held it under the spout and pushed the lever down. Normally, the ship’s movement made a task as simple as filling a cup of coffee a test of both aim and endurance, as a pitch of the sea would send hot java spilling over onto Noah’s hand. They were moving so slowly after the storm, however, he might as well have been standing in the Starbucks at Pike Place Market. He easily filled the cup and, although he preferred it black, added a creamer so it wouldn’t upset his empty stomach. Snapping a lid on top, he slurped at the tepid drink. It tasted as bad as always, yet somehow the act of doing something so ordinary made it better. They were through the storm, and although he had a good cut and a headache, he was more or less no worse for wear. You can get through this. Just keep your head down and you’ll be home before you know it with money in your pocket. What happened after he set foot on dry land, he had no idea. The simple prospect of being off the ship—and never setting foot on another—was enough to keep going. It had to be.
    Noah wandered up the passageway and into one of the day rooms, hoping to find a better-looking group. Instead he found more of the same. A couple of deckhands lay across twin sofas in mirror positions, each with an arm draped over his eyes to block out the light. The ship was normally a noisy place filled with the sounds of men’s conversation. They had to shout to be heard over the machinery constantly running on the ship. Aside from the engines, however, the Promise was eerily silent. No one spoke. It was as if the fog had penetrated everyone’s heads and was filling their skulls with the same kind of stinging cold that he’d felt on the ladder outside.
    Andrew something from Olympia—Noah couldn’t remember his last name—lifted his arm and peeked at Noah standing in the doorway. He dropped his elbow back over his eyes. The other man jerked as a single growling snore wrested him from tenuous sleep. He turned to his side, facing away from the room. Noah wanted to ask if either man had seen Marty, but thought better of it. Unless these guys had grown eyes in their elbows, they hadn’t seen a single thing. All told, he’d run into eight or nine lethargic men throughout the ship. The other half of the complement had to be sleeping it off, awaiting their turn to take a late watch or just trying to recover from the labors of the night before.
    He walked out of the room and hesitated at the bulkhead door leading to the port lifeboat. Remembering he wanted to ensure the safety preparations for both FRCs, he pulled down his sleeves and stepped outside.
    Setting out, his thick Norwegian wool sweater and work pants had been enough to handle any brief trip outside. The farther north they traveled, however, the more protective gear he needed. Setting his cup on the rail, he zipped his sweater up to his chin. Still, the wind bit at him, making his cheeks sting and his eyes water. Even through his watch cap, his ears were stinging. They’d go numb