Chapter 7: The Boiler Stair

Mitchell drove all the way to Red Hook without a word.

Rain had started somewhere on the bridge.

By the time we reached the boatyard, it was coming sideways off the water, and the wind rattled the tin roof.

"What did Lawrence mean?" I asked, as he cut the engine. "About why you left."

"Not tonight."

"Mitchell."

"Lana." It was the second time he had said my name that way, flat and tired and final. "Not tonight."

I let it go.

I did not like it, but I let it go.

We had one foot on the iron stairs when the lights went out.

The whole yard dropped into black, and a tarp over the boat in the open shed tore loose with a crack.

"The hull," Mitchell said. "If that gets wet, I lose a month."

He ran.

I ran after him with my phone light, my good shoes sliding on the wet concrete.

Under the shed, the wind had ripped the tarp half off the old boat's ribs.

We fought it for ten minutes, the two of us hauling on rope, the rain driving into my eyes, my coat soaked to my shoulders.

At the end Mitchell cinched a knot and swore.

He had dragged his palm across a rusted clamp, and blood was running down his wrist.

"Let me see," I said.

"It's nothing."

"Mitchell."

He held out his hand.

We splashed through the dark to the boiler room at the back of the building, where a bare bulb hung on a battery lamp he kept by the door.

I found a first aid kit on a shelf.

He sat on an upturned crate, soaked to the bone, and I stood between his knees and cleaned the cut.

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