child’s attempt to go above. The cabin had so many portlights that either side of the boat had a generous view; the only point I couldn’t see was straight ahead. I left the VHF on low. I knew I’d be able to pick the boat’s name out of the chatter if I needed to. But the din of businesslike voices made it seem as if the problems of the sea were being taken care of, that there was some superstructure—an oversoul; I fell asleep instantly.
I think I know what I have, Michael said.
He was sitting across from me. At the nav station. Like a ghost captain.
I sat up too fast. Dizziness blinded me. I covered my face with my hands, my heart racing.
I have dengue fever, Michael said.
Wait, wait, I said. Start over.
He sat casually, cross-legged, leaning against the bulwark. He looked familiar and unfamiliar. His hair was dark with sweat. His eyes burned, strangely vacant.
One second, I said. Give me a second. OK?
I went to check on the children. They lay like two hanging fish, staring into the screen. Hans had just condemned Anna to die from the cold. It would be another half hour before everyone in Arendelle would have their happy ending. Then, sliding past Michael, I went above. The sun was directly overhead. A rim of clouds hung in the west. But the weather was fine. I opened my mouth and let the wind fill it. I washed myself with wind.
I returned below and sat down across from him. OK, I said. Start over.
I have dengue fever, he said.
How do you know?
I remember learning about it in my Wilderness First Responders course. Look. He raised his T-shirt. The raw rash went from hip to opposite shoulder. A trail of livid red wounds, like a column of fire ants.
This is no good, I said.
What do you mean?
We have to get help.
We don’t need help, he said.
I need help.
Who’s going to help you, Juliet?
What do you mean? People get help. I raised my arms, gesturing at the portlights. Shit happens out here all the time.
Michael gave me a faraway look, tinged with disgust.
The Coast Guard, I said. Don’t look at me like that.
He sighed heavily and did not respond. Without comment, he lay down on the settee and shut his eyes, as if our brief conversation had spent him, and he was gone again.
I went and got the SAT phone.
I’m going to call the Coast Guard, I announced.
Michael said nothing. Was he daring me?
In a fit of kindness, back when he was his normal self, he had put the number in the phone’s emergency contacts. I held the phone to my ear and waited.
Coast Guard, a young man chirped on the other line.
Oh, well, hello, I said warmly, unsure of how to proceed. This is the yacht Juliet. I was wondering if I could talk to somebody.
What’s your situation, Juliet?
I’ve got a sick crewmember. I’m just a little unsure of—of—
What are your coordinates, Juliet?
Coordinates, right. I looked around the cabin. I detected a grin on Michael’s face, but he lay mutely. As if he were elsewhere.
I’m in Pain City, Juliet.
* * *
—
Do you have GPS? the young man asked.
Yes, I said. I ran up the companionway with the phone.
I gave him the coordinates.
Confirming fourteen degrees, forty-seven point five minutes North and seventy-five degrees, twenty-six point twenty-seven minutes West, he said.
Yes, I said. That’s right.
Well, we have a vessel not far from you. About eighty miles southeast of you. Off the coast of Colombia.
You do? I cried. Christ, that’s reassuring. That’s great.
Is your crewmember in need of immediate evacuation?
No, I am not, Michael pronounced, from his prone position.