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scent of salt-water air steadily became more evident. Realizing she had talked more in the last three hours than in as many weeks, Michelle was surprised when the view from the vehicle’s windshield held the vast blue of the Gulf of Mexico.
    Following the faded signs, Matt steered the armored truck through a maze of seaside streets until reaching the entrance of Sharky’s Marina, far smaller than massive ports she had grown used to in Havana. Several watercraft still bobbed restlessly, straining against the aged and worn dock lines securing them to the docks. Many others, however, had succumbed to years of rain, wind, and storms. The tall mast of a sail boat stood several feet above the water, the rest of the ship submerged in the nearly clear waters. Evidence of a past hurricane was visible in the number of boats that had been deposited haphazardly along the parking lot. Where once stood a small building, likely a manager’s office, there was now a pile of shattered wood and glass.
    With practiced precision, Matt backed the boat trailer down the concrete ramp until the vessel lifted from the trailer and floated on the water. Helping as best she could, but cautious not to get in his way, Michelle followed his soft spoken directions. Soon after truck and trailer were parked nearby, they both lowered themselves into the boat. Without hesitation, the craft’s engine started, and he angled the boat towards the open sea. Though Matt claimed it would survive the seven hundred mile direct crossing to New Cuba in one go, their lack of fuel forced a charted course that hugged the Gulf coast, refueling at other marinas along the way.
    Beyond the shallow waters of the marina, he gave the boat more thrust and soon the water sliced apart. Sprays of sea water sprinkled Michelle’s face, quickly chilling her in the increased wind. Matt seemed unfazed however. A look of simple rightness covered his face as he stared out at the horizon. As the minutes passed, she began to understand his longing for the water. Even though land was still in sight, the threat of Tils evaporated at the water’s edge, and for the first time in years, she realized that the infected could not harm her. Even her time of ignorance in Havana had not held the same safety she now felt.
    Shifting herself to avoid the mist coming up over the sides, Michelle moved to a dryer spot at the center of the boat’s rear deck. Her eyes followed the white lines of unsettled water that trailed in the craft’s wake. She watched, hypnotized, as the aquatic wound from the boat’s passing healed and returned to its unmolested wildness. With land off to her right, the view she studied was an endless plane of water save for one black speck in the distance. Several minutes passed before she broke away from the wake and climbed the short metal ladder to the boat’s bridge.
    Matt rested his hands on the wheel, making slight alterations in course from time to time. The shaggy locks of his chestnut hair crested out beyond him and she could see the easy smile he carried.
    “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked her, his voice raised to compensate for the engine’s roar.
    Nodding agreement, she stood silently beside him as she tucked her own windblown hair behind her ears. Her only other experiences at sea, the first to escape to New Cuba, and the second to flee from that very place, had been rushed and riddled with danger, allowing no time to truly appreciate the wonder and freedom Matt knew so well.
    “Take the wheel,” he said to her, stepping aside to allow her room. Sheepishly, and slightly intimidated, Michelle placed her hands on the wheel. Matt began to explain the various controls. She could not stop a laugh—her first in weeks—when he showed her how to make tight circles with the boat. As the craft danced gracefully, her eyes once again fell on the black speck in the distance. Almost impossibly, the object was much closer than it had been before. She pointed it out to Matt,