Girl Underwater by Claire Kells Page A

even
looking
for clothes?
We were on a commercial airliner, which means black boxes and media attention and lawsuits. The NTSB probably started looking for us the second we hit turbulence.
    I hang everything on tree branches, while Colin does his best to dry out his bulky winter coat for the boys to sleep in. We find a few other coats, too, but they’re all saturated with either blood or lake water. It could take days for them to dry.
    Colin tosses me a ski mask. The eyes and mouth are cut out, and I must look like a wilderness-based criminal when I slip it over my head. The two younger boys start to cry.
    â€œI’m sorry!” I yank it off and pull them into a hug. They sniffle into my shirt. “It’s not real, I promise.”
    I catch Colin watching me during this whole sad display, and he quickly averts his gaze. He must know by now I’m pretty much the worst caretaker ever. When the pregnant lady comes to, I can’t wait to let her take over.
    â€œYou think it’ll be enough for all of us?” I ask, gesturing to the clothes.
    â€œI think so.” He stands back to assess the display. “Let’s walk the perimeter, see what else we can find.”
    We start at the water’s edge and work our way south, returning to camp whenever our arms are full or one of the boys needs a breather. Colin makes at least a dozen trips lugging massive loads of fuselage—some larger than the hood of a car. The boys follow him everywhere. He refuses help, but I do my best to participate anyway, carrying as much weight as my weary arms will hold. Even with Colin’s bad leg, he shows zero signs of exertion. The man is a machine, carrying loads that would pose a challenge to three or four men put together. I never doubted Colin’s strength, but this is something else; this is adrenaline, and muscle, and the instinct to survive.
    By midmorning, we’ve assembled enough scraps to build a small lean-to against the trees. Colin fortifies the walls while the boys and I sort through everything we found—which isn’t much, aside from the fuselage. All told, we retrieved fourteen snack packs, featuring Doritos, peanuts, and Oreos. No vegetables. No protein. The meal trays must have gone down with the plane, along with the bottled water, first-aid kits, and everything else that might have improved our situation.
    They’ll come for us,
I tell myself for the hundredth time.
They have to.
    Once the boys settle down, we all stop to admire Colin’s handiwork. He’s built us a fine shelter, with thick slabs of industrial-grade material and a durable roof. “Last piece is right there,” he says, gesturing to a particularly forbidding piece of steel. “Can you give me a hand?”
    He doesn’t need my help, but a part of me swells with pride that he asked. “Sure.”
    While he concentrates on placing the slab in its proper place, I can’t help but notice the rippling cords of muscle in his forearms and shoulders. His jaw is locked, his expression neutral. It’s no wonder he dominates so completely in the pool. His competitive streak shines through even now, and his strength augments it.
    He fastens the slabs with bungee cords and rigs the door so it won’t blow open in the wind. “Where did you learn all this?” I ask him. “Civil engineering classes?”
    â€œNope. My dad’s a roofer.”
    Another surprise, but he doesn’t elaborate. The boys are watching us with googly eyes, and for the first time since we crashed, the prospect of bad weather doesn’t feel like a death sentence. “It looks amazing,” I say.
    â€œYou helped.”
    â€œYeah, but you dragged half the plane across the shore!”
    He shrugs, but his eyes tell me he appreciates the compliment. “Fuselage is lighter than it looks,” he says, with the hint of a smile.
    â€œIt’s a fort!” Liam cries. The boys pile in, and the