Sadie Walker Is Stranded by Madeleine Roux Page A

nurse—still in said scrubs, of course—sat huddled against the pointed apex of the bow. She held a patched carpet bag to her chest as if it was a buoy and we were going down. At different points during the afternoon, the young man, Noah, and Kellerman had tried talking to her. The attention only seemed to make her more withdrawn, though that didn’t stop Noah from trying. It was surprising, actually. I didn’t expect someone Noah’s age to put that much effort into comforting the nurse. But he seemed genuinely concerned. Maybe teenagers weren’t teenagers anymore, I mused, watching him crouch next to her and wait, patiently, for some kind of response. The one thing he could get out of her was a name, Cassandra. A tiny chain of islands shimmered into view and slid by behind the woman’s profile.
    “Something tells me we don’t want to know,” I replied, looking back at my cards.
    “Seems mean to just let her sit there shaking like a leaf.”
    “Maybe that’s what she needs.”
    “We could ask if she wants to play cards,” Andrea suggested, still watching Cassandra.
    “Leave her alone,” I said. “She’ll come to us if she wants to join.”
    “Do you want to be left alone?”
    I smiled down at my row of jacks. It was a good question, but I couldn’t really decide. So I said, “No, this is good” and we continued the game.
    At nightfall we gathered around the cockpit and divvied up food. Andrea pulled out the cabbages and dried fish she had salvaged from my apartment. As she did, one of my sketches came out as well, stuck to the dried fish package. I grabbed it as quickly as I could and stuffed it back inside. Nobody seemed to care, but when I looked back at Arturo for a handful of almonds, Moritz Kellerman was watching me closely.
    That was it, I thought, I can’t hold onto these sketches. They weren’t a liability, not at all; I just didn’t want them anymore. It’s not like they would be suddenly useful on a boat or on an island, or anywhere . If I couldn’t say clearly to myself what they represented then there was no use lugging them around.
    Kellerman’s glance didn’t mean much at the time, but it certainly explained things when I woke up that night to a rustling right next to my head. The garbage bag full of my sketches and clothes was open, two hairy forearms sticking out the end.
    “What are you doing?”
    He jumped, the flashlight wedged beneath his chin clattering onto the deck. He went for the flashlight but I was awake now, painfully awake, and faster.
    When I shined the beam of light on him he froze, two pieces of paper pinched between his fingers. Busted.
    “Those are mine,” I said lamely.
    “I … I didn’t mean to snoop.”
    “Yes, you did.”
    “Yes … all right, but only a very little.”
    I sighed, too tired to start up a real argument. “Here,” I said, handing him the flashlight, “get a good long look. Tomorrow they’re going overboard.”
    He looked like a huge tweed grasshopper, perched over the garbage bag with his knees sticking out in opposite directions. His scarf hung down like a tongue blue with cold. Kellerman directed the flashlight’s beam onto the sketches and frowned.
    “Why would you ever think to destroy these?” he asked.
    “Because they’re total shit, that’s why, and there are more important things to worry about.”
    Kellerman didn’t argue against that. Real encouraging. He was too busy scratching at his chin, mulling something over. It was too late for this. I wanted to curl up on my blanket again and revel in the fact that, blissfully, I was no longer seasick.
    “Who is this woman?” he asked.
    He had already seen everything there was to see, no use being coy. “Allison Hewitt,” I said. “She’s um, a bit of an urban legend.”
    Over the thin beam of the flashlight, Moritz stared at me unblinking. Right. Nonnative English speaker—I had forgotten. “It’s like a myth, I guess, but a modern one.”
    “I know what an urban