Gasp (Visions) - Lisa McMann Page 0,48

blond hair and a polka-dot headband. A black-haired woman in a red skirt and jacket. An older couple wearing matching sweatshirts from the Wisconsin Dells.

“Shit,” Sawyer says in a low voice as he reads the list over my shoulder. “There’s another one.”

“But . . . the sun is wrong,” I say weakly.

“Or maybe that light behind the clouds wasn’t the sun,” Trey says.

“Or . . .” My mind flies everywhere, combing over all the conversations I’ve ever had with Tori. “Or maybe Tori’s sunrise is actually . . . a sunset?” I feel my throat close. “What time is it?” I scrounge around for my phone, finally remembering that I put it in my duffel bag. I grab it and check the time. It flips between six thirty-two and five thirty-two, depending on whether my phone is picking up a signal from the east side or the west side of the lake.

I see five new text messages from Tori, and I flip through them. The water, she says, again and again. The water. It’s rising. It’s pouring into my mouth. It’s flowing from my eyeballs. I can’t breathe.

While everybody waits for me to say something profound, I sit with my eyes closed, feeling sick and totally inadequate to lead this task. Trying to organize my crazy thoughts. Trying to figure out what to do first. Trying not to hyperventilate.

I suck in a deep breath, blow it out, and open my eyes. “Okay, guys.” My voice shakes a little, which pisses me off.

I sit up straighter and start again, stronger. “Okay. This is happening. First, we take turns getting our wet suits back on without drawing attention to ourselves, which could be difficult with all the rocking and the pukers waiting for your stall. Rowan and Sawyer, you first, and when you get back, tackle the rest of the victim list.”

Trey gives me the tiniest smile of encouragement, and I know he’s proud of me.

“Ben, how are you with math?”

“Decent,” he says.

“Good. See if you can figure out how fast we’re going and how far we are from the disaster point so we can have a clue how much time we have.”

“Got it.” He pulls his phone out and starts working.

“Trey,” I say.

“Yes?”

I blow out a breath. “First, don’t die.”

“Okay.”

Ben looks up at us for a second, presses his lips together, and goes back to work.

“Second, I need you to use your amazing charm to try to talk to the pilot, or at least one of the crew, and try to tell them to steer clear of the low rock walls—”

Trey closes his eyes, a pained expression on his face.

“What?” I say.

“They won’t listen, Jules. But I will try. I’ll give it everything I’ve got.”

“That’s all I’m asking,” I say. “Maybe you can convince them to ask passengers to put their life vests on.” My throat hurts, and I know he’s right—they won’t listen to a teenager.

“I get it,” Trey says. “I do. We have to try everything.”

“Thanks.”

Trey stands up carefully and aims for the nearest chair to grab on to, and he’s on his way.

I sniff hard and pick up the victim list, staring blindly at it, thinking about the blond girl with the polka-dot headband.

I look out the rear starboard side of the ferry toward Milwaukee and see a gorgeous family of four waterspouts spinning like dust devils, connecting lake and sky.

Forty-Two

I point the waterspouts out to Ben as others on the ferry notice too.

“They’re amazing,” Ben says. “I’ve never seen one before.”

I nod. I can’t stop watching.

“You’re doing great, Jules,” he says. “I mean it.”

I look at him, at the sincerity in his eyes, and I can see why Trey has fallen so hard for this guy. “Thanks. Thanks for helping us.”

“How could I not?” comes his simple reply. “My life was saved in that music room. There’s got to be a reason for that. I figure this is it.” He looks at me. “What I can’t figure out is your dedication to this phenomenon. You’ve never been saved from anything, yet you feel such a strong need to rescue others.”

I shrug. It’s too much to explain right now. As I spot Rowan making her way back to the table with her duffel bag, Ben turns back to his phone and says, “We’ve got about forty minutes.”

I set the stopwatch on my phone. “Okay. Thanks. You change into your wet suit when Sawyer’s back.” I grab my bag and stagger toward the bathroom, pointing Rowan’s attention in the