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ordered them   —”
    “No, you special ordered them,” Carpie said. “And we thank you for it.”
    “Speak for yourself,” Juke said.
    “I promise you can work in this. Maybe not as fast, but better safe than sorry.”
    “I’m already sorry,” Juke said.
    “Stuff it, Juke. You go over, you have about thirty seconds before the waves take you out of reach of the boat. Another four minutes and you’re dead. This suit could save your life   —at least long enough for us to find you and pull you in. So the right answer is ‘Yes, sir.’”
    Owen raised an eyebrow as Scotty picked up another suit and tossed it at him. He caught it. “Yes, sir.”
    She didn’t spare him a look. “Listen, we’ve only had two overboards on the Wilhelmina in twenty years. Both were from rough weather and deckhands taking chances. Not today.”
    Greenie took his suit without argument. Carpie had already begun to work his on.
    “Let’s not kid ourselves. No one is getting rescued if they go in the drink,” Juke said. “You go in, you die.”
    Greenie looked up, eyes wide.
    “No one is going over,” Owen said and glanced at Scotty with a frown.
    She drew in a breath. “No one is going over.”
    “I have kids at home, and I plan on not only living through this, but getting paid,” Carpie said as he zipped up the suit. He shoved his feet into his boots, pulled the hood over his gimme cap. “It’s time to fish.”
    Owen zipped his suit and headed outside, noticing how Scotty had vanished into her bunk to squeeze into her suit. Probably sohe wouldn’t hear her moan in pain, which only fueled a small knot of frustration inside him.
    Two hours of sleep hadn’t erased the memory of her fitting, ever so perfectly, in his arms.
    If only she weren’t so stubborn. Impossible. Bossy.
    He emerged to a world of chaos on the deck, the boat tossed in a frothy sea with forty-foot waves. The sorting table jerked against its lashings, the riggings white with ice. The boat pitched into a trough, then crested to the top and splashed down again, the water sheeting over the bow onto them.
    “We’re supposed to fish in this?” Greenie yelled above the gale wind.
    “Let’s just get it done!” Juke said and climbed up to man the crane as they pulled the pots in.
    Scotty joined them topside, dressed in head-to-toe orange. She signaled to the wheelhouse, and Old Red’s voice boomed from the speaker. “Last string. Let’s get these pots in and go home!”
    As Owen grabbed the grappling hook and swung it out to snag the buoy line, the word hung in his mind.
    Home.
    He caught the rope, hauled in the line, and attached it to the winch, his face against the spitting ocean spray, a surge of adrenaline firing through him.
    Yeah, home. To see if he could face his mistakes, repair the damage of his impulsive actions.
    The pot emerged, dripping, bulging with crab. The winch lifted it and Owen reached out with Carpie to pull it in.
    They worked it onto the lift, and Owen unhooked the winch as Carpie opened the trap.
    A hundred opies, as big as Frisbees, spilled onto the sortingtable. “Woo-hoo!” Greenie shouted just as the boat dipped into another trough.
    Owen grabbed the rail to keep from ramming into it.
    “Let’s get these in the well!” Scotty said, the wind taking her voice. She leaned over the table.
    The next wave hit the boat like a hammer, crashing down, the vessel shuddering as icy water engulfed the deck. Shards of foamy ice fell like an avalanche, the wave scooping up everything in its path.
    The force of this one slammed Owen against the railing, raking pain across his chest. Then the crest sucked him under, dragging him across the deck, rolling him like the ice chunks spilling over the edge.
    He flailed, fighting for purchase, and found it on the edge of the lift, one hand on the pot. He worked his hand into the netting and held on against the surge.
    Then, suddenly, the pot broke free and started sliding back toward the