Haze by Erin Thomas

cracked open the benches to rummage inside for anything we could use. We had to move slowly so they wouldn’t notice. With each minute, my heart pounded faster.
    â€œLife jackets?” she asked.
    They would help us swim, but they would also make us an obvious target. Reluctantly, I said no. I would get us to shore. I had to.
    Abby gasped. “Bram!”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI found our distraction.”

chapter twenty-seven
    We had taken off our shoes and jackets. That was as much as we could manage without drawing attention.
    I peered through the open snap. The tiny crack of moonlight disappeared. “Now,” I said.
    Abby slid her knife through the tarp, making a large, L-shaped flap that would open to the driver’s side to make it harder for the skinny guy to get a clear shot. I held the edges together.
    Abby had wedged one of the benches open with a life jacket. She reached in to snip the wire that led to the boat’s headlamp. That was our distraction. It would also make it harder for them to find us once we were in the water.
    â€œIt won’t cut,” she whispered.
    I shoved my arm into the opening and fumbled for the wire. Abby put my hand on it. I grabbed it and yanked.
    Someone shouted, but Abby and I were already moving. I grabbed the chrome handrail with one hand. Abby held the other. We hurled ourselves into the water.
    The cold shocked my muscles still. I wanted to kick and claw my way to the surface, but I swam down to avoid the propeller blades. Down and away from where we had splashed in. If they shot at us, I never knew it. I just swam down and down with Abby, until my lungs ached and Abby’s hand tugged at mine.
    We surfaced. I sucked in air. Abby was coughing. I gripped her with one arm, using the other arm and my good leg to tread water. I had to kick with the bad ankle to keep us on the surface in two-foot waves. It hurt, but we were alive.
    â€œYou okay?” I asked. She coughed. “Abby! You okay?”
    â€œCold,” she finally managed.
    â€œI know.” My teeth and bones ached with it. I could hear the roar of the motor. The taillight darted back and forth. They were looking for us. “We have to go under again, okay?”
    We dove. The cold numbed my skin. I concentrated on kicking, on gliding. On Abby’s hand in mine. We surfaced again. All I smelled, all I tasted, was salt.
    â€œI c-c-can’t. C-c-c-can’t d-do th-that anymore,” Abby said, when we surfaced the fourth time. Her teeth chattered.
    â€œIt’s okay,” I said. “They’re far enough away.” When the next swell carried us up, I glanced around until I saw city lights. Far away. My heart sank.
    â€œIs th-that home?” Abby asked.
    Connecticut or New York, I didn’t care. It was land. “Yeah,” I said. “Don’t let go.”
    We swam, always touching each other. Sometimes a lopsided breaststroke, sometimes on our backs. Moving warmed me a little, but not enough. The moon slipped in and out of clouds.
    We were swimming on our backs the first time she went under. No splashing, no coughing, just a quiet, sudden sinking and her hand limp in mine. “Abby!” I hauled her up.
    She blinked and coughed. “Bram?” Her voice was thick and slurred. “Where are we?”
    I wanted to cry. My eyes stung. “Don’t do this,” I whispered. I couldn’t swim for both of us. I was so tired. My arms and legs ached. My clothes were heavy, and my ankle was a dull throb. The shoreline was still so far away.
    Abby sank again.
    â€œTired,” she said, after I pulled her up and she stopped coughing.
    I looked at the lights. Too far away. I swallowed. “It’s okay,” I told Abby. “Just kick your feet.” I hauled her into a lifeguard tow, my arm across her chest, her head on my shoulder. And I swam.
    The cold and the waves, the repeated motion of swimming, it all numbed me. The moon slid