Burning the Map by Laura Caldwell Page B

the time Sin says we need to make things better between us. Still, Sin’s face is lit up like a neon beer sign. She’s so rarely hot for anyone. I suppose if she’s happy, it’ll make everything easier.
    I look at Kat. “What do you think?”
    â€œI’m game for anything,” she says. No surprise, really.
    â€œAll right,” I say. “Let’s do it.”

PART II
IOS, GREECE

9
    T he ferry in Brindisi is monstrous, and yet they’ve managed to stuff in more passengers than there is space. We’ve already been laughed at when we asked for a sleeper cabin and learned that the rooms with cots were sold out weeks ago. Find a chair or someplace on the deck, we’re told. The Irish guys were smart enough to book ahead, and they offer to share their bunks, but the other people in their cabin refuse to let us stay, assuming, apparently, that the six of us would be having raucous sex all night if we did. We say a temporary goodbye to the guys, promising to meet them at the Ios port.
    Kat, Sin and I schlep from one level of the ship to another, struggling with our overstuffed backpacks. The inside of the ferry has a few lounge areas furnished with hideous, chartreuse-colored, faux-suede chairs. These, too, are completely occupied with travelers, most of them young, most of them sleeping, chatting or drinking beers, giving the boat the feel of an international floating college town. A bit stupid of us to choose the month of August to travel, when nearly everyEuropean citizen is off for “holiday,” but it was August or never for me because of the bar exam.
    We eventually resign ourselves to sleeping on the deck, but even that is a struggle. The floor is littered with sleeping bags and makeshift campsites. We finally locate a small patch of open space near three large metal cylinders. We look longingly at those people with plush sleeping bags while we spread out our pathetic little beach towels.
    Despite the paltry accommodations, I know I’ll have no trouble falling asleep, due to the minimal hours I logged last night. I prop a sweatshirt under my head, happy to be horizontal. The last thing I hear is Kat striking up a conversation with some German boys who look about fifteen.
    â€œWhere you boys heading?” she asks.
    â€œCrete,” one replies.
    â€œReally?” She sounds disappointed.
    Â 
    At 5:00 a.m., we find out the purpose of the metal cylinders we’ve curled up next to when these cylinders, otherwise known as steamer horns, sound off in three long, rumbling blasts, louder than anything I’ve ever heard. When they first start to boom, I have no idea what they are. I can barely remember where I am. All I know is that I’m being terrorized out of a wonderful dream where Francesco and I are kissing on a hardwood bench in one of the ubiquitous Roman churches. I bolt upright, terrified, my heart pounding almost as loudly as the horns. Lindsey sits up, too, and we stare at each other, our hands slapped over our ears, our mouths open in surprise. Kat is trying to untangle herself from the German boy who’s sharing her meager towel.
    Other than messing with the poor peasants on the deck, there seems to be no reason for the horns. We don’t dock anywhere. There’s no announcement of any kind. When the blasts are over, Kat and Lindsey slump back on their towels, but I’m entirely too awake.
    I walk to the side of the deck, picking my way over the multitude of bodies. When I reach the railing, the sight of the sea overwhelms me. Last night, we’d boarded in darkness, and I’d almost forgotten that we were on the Adriatic. Now the sun creeps its way from the east, infusing the teal-blue water with a golden-white sheen. The water is peaceful, only a sailboat or two in the distance, no land in sight. The air smells of salt, and it’s cool with an early-morning chill.
    Kat joins me in hanging over the railing. The wind whips her