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wreckage and rallied. Silence made a seventh companion as they paddled through the night. Once, from another boat, they heard a scream, a splash, and some commotion as a body was dragged back in. The White Hairs didn’t even slow down. 
     
    Howie had to pee.
    He couldn’t remember drinking anything, maybe salt water. He wondered what to do. He wasn’t about to pee in the boat, in front of everyone. He wasn’t going to stand up and risk capsizing. The more he thought about it, the more he had to go. Water sloshed around his knees at the bottom of the boat, wet, cold, and constricting. The paddles splashed with wet, dripping noises. Water flowing under the lifeboat  gurgled past them in a long stream. Every now and then a wave would jolt the boat, increasing the pressure on his bladder.
    He’d played a game at a carnival where he shot a water gun into a clown’s mouth to inflate a balloon. That’s how he felt right now, and whoever was firing the water gun was a deadeye. Every dip of the paddles pumped that balloon. Dip, pump. Dip, pump. Dip, pump. He shifted in his seat, undid his belt to relieve the pressure. That worked for a while, but within an hour it pumped up again.
    Shouldn’t he save it? He remembered hearing somewhere that you weren’t supposed to drink sea water, it was worse than no water at all. Didn’t people without water resort to drinking their own urine? That was healthy, right? The thought of saving it just to drink was abhorrent, and he wasn’t about to ask if anyone else wanted some. At this point, he just needed to get rid of it.
    They travelled for almost two hours. He leaned into the darkness to catch some glimpse of land, some indication that their journey would close. He craned his ears for some end to the monotony of that vast seascape. Nothing.
    Several of his fellow survivors passed out from exhaustion. Lauren slept with her head on Carter’s shoulder. They looked sweet. Emily’s tiny body lay curled up on one seat like a cat. Mason snored like he was on a camping trip. Maybe I could do that, drift off into sleep until we land. His bulk prevented him from any position beyond sitting up. He let his head roll against the fat of his neck, like a travel pillow. That wasn’t comfortable, so he propped his elbow on the edge of the boat and supported his head on it. His elbow promptly slipped off and the whole boat rocked ominously as he regained his posture. That woke the other sleepers momentarily, grumbling and shifting, until they fell asleep again.
    Sleep eluded Howard. He glanced across the calm faces of his comrades. How peaceful they looked! Plucked from certain death, headed into an uncertain future, yet they slept with angelic faces.
    Howie wondered how they all ended up here. Raised in different parts of the world, to different parents, with different jobs, income, and family matters, they had very little in common, yet, through some twist of fate, through decisions made somewhere in the midst of time, they converged here, as if their whole lives had been meant for one purpose - bred for this boat. The present, and present company, felt more real than anything Howie ever experienced.
    How odd that they would have pursued, or not pursued, college degrees, sought the love of companions, found their soul mates, took  jobs in industries that could support them, worked hard, saved or splurged, and somehow reached the decision, all of them, to take a cruise. Whether bought in cash or credit, they paid for this moment, bought it with their lives, and now here they were. Survivors.
     
    A sudden lurch knocked Howie’s head against the gunwale. He woke with a snort. It was daylight.
    “Welcome back to Hell,” said Carter. Everyone else was already awake.
    “Where are we?”
    “In the middle of the ocean with no water, no food, no clothes, and no supplies.”
    “You’re so negative, Carter.” Emily unfolded from her seat.
    Carter wouldn’t be stopped. “Listen, I don't know if