Chapter 22

"Would you rather…never eat bread again or only have bread to eat for the rest of your life?"

The fish seem to have been sucked up into the storm, because there hasn't been a single bite in days. We're out of food and on our last dredges of water. Clouds have closed in on us once again, and we're sailing without an accurate course. I'm trying my best to be optimistic, but it's difficult when my empty stomach is determined to make its presence known every waking minute of the godsdamned day.

Acker grimaces at the options, eyes closed, head propped up with a folded arm. "That's worse than the snake-arms ultimatum."

"Well, which is it?"

He peeks at me through one squinted eye. "I guess I'd never eat bread again."

I am outraged. "You're a masochist."

"Who needs bread when there's steak?" He resumes his lounging with a smile on his face as he closes his eyes again. "Would you rather be hairy all over or no hair at all?"

I groan at the reminder of the state my hair is in right now. I've tried my best to keep it in a plait, but the saltwater and wind have whipped it into a frenzy. "Who needs hair anyway? You have to wash it and brush it and it's always in the way. "

"I bet you would swim really fast without it. Like a fish."

I recast one of the lines. "I change my mind then. You might actually mistake me for a fish and eat me."

"Joke's on you. I'm plenty hungry enough to eat you now, with or without hair."

There's a beat of silence where the connotation takes on a whole other meaning, and my skin burns a fiery red color. I don't look over my shoulder at him, pretending the innuendo went over my head.

"Should I throw the net out?"

Acker snorts. "You said it yourself, the net isn't going to drag deep enough as it's meant for fishing near the reefs. Plus, it'd only slow us down. You'd just be exerting more energy than you have without the substance to fuel you." He turns over like I assume he'd do if he were in a real bed. "Matter of fact, you should rest."

"I'm not tired," I lie.

I dare a look at him, and he's staring at me with lazy eyes. He knows I'm exhausted. He feels it too. The ocean has a way of doing that to you, sucking the life from your bones a little more every second. I can't imagine the anguish we'd be in if the sun was out in its full glory. Small graces from the gods, I suppose.

"Wake me for rotation?" he says after a moment.

I nod.

The day gives to night, and the clouds don't move. It feels like there's a heavy blanket over the earth. Acker doesn't shift an inch as he slumbers on the deck. The air is thick and humid, making each breath harder to take in than the last, and I'm so fucking thirsty.

I keep my fingers on the lines. With the barest of reflection from the moon to see by, there's a chance I could miss the pull or dip of a line, so I rotate between the few we have cast. Every so often I check the compass, making adjustments on the tiller when needed. Time kind of runs on forever and quickly at the same time, so much so that I'm surprised when the clouds come into focus little by little with the morning light.

I nearly leap out of my skin when Acker breaks the silence, voice hoarse from sleep. "I slept the day away."

I reach for the waterskin and hand it to him. "Actually, it's morning."

He freezes mid reach, eyes becoming clear as he looks from the sky to me. "I slept through the night?"

I shake the waterskin for him to take it. "Like a baby."

"Why didn't you wake me?"

"You needed sleep."

He sits up. "And so do you."

I drop the container in his lap. "How's your side?"

He doesn't bother to look. "It's fine."

The quick dismissal isn't convincing. "I saw it when you got in the water yesterday," I tell him, revealing the truth. "It's not pretty. Have you been putting the salve on it?"

He knows he's caught. "I used it all." Uncapping the waterskin, he takes a miniscule sip before handing it back to me, its weight no different than before. "You've been sneaking glances at me while I'm undressing. I'm flattered."

I take my own miniscule sip and ignore his attempt to divert the conversation. "It's infected."

"I don't think the mead was top shelf," he jokes.

"Let me see it."

"Trying to get me undressed?" When I don't so much as blink at him, he loses the pretense, expression becoming serious with his next breath. "It's not as bad as it looks."

"Then why won't you show it to me?"

He stands up, towering over me in the next instant. "Because you're worrying for nothing. It'll heal the moment we get to land."

"You act like it's right over the horizon," I say, growing frustrated by his nonchalance. "We might not see land for weeks. What will you do when the fever sets in?"

He shakes his head once. "It won't."

"How do you know that?" I all but yell, voice cracking from my unshed emotion.

He has the nerve to smile at me. "I've survived far too many worse things for an itchy wound to take me out."

I choke on the scoff attempting to escape my throat. "Your arrogance won't save you," I seethe.

"Neither will your worry." The softness of his words sucks all the fire from my veins, leaving a hollowness in its wake. He's slow to lift a hand to tuck my wiry hair out of my face, like he's afraid it'll provoke me. "You need to rest. The mind plays tricks when it's been restless for too long."

I know he's right. The desire to close my eyes pulls at me. I've been fighting it all night, and as if our argument has doused any energy I had in my bones, the yearning for sleep becomes more potent by the second.

I nod, giving in. There's a noticeable slackening of his body, like my submittal eases his own worries.

He grins. "Good."

His one-word answer feels incomplete, like he intended to say more and stopped. But I don't have time to ponder it as I lie down and close my eyes, propping my head on my pack. I'm out within a minute.