27
The ship gives a loud, warning blare of its horn. Andrew, Jake, and I share a panicked look. We all go from slumping, lazily relaxed in our seats to bolting upright––our eyes bulging in similar looks of alarm.
"Does that mean...?"
I don't bother to finish the question because Jake is already grabbing his camera and making a run for it. "I guess so," Andrew responds, even as he throws money onto the table, waves to the bartender, grabs my hand, and hightails it out towards the pier.
I am wearing high-heeled sandals, so I have to take tiny steps. My legs get in three strides to each one of Andrew's. The shuffle-scurry I am attempting has to look ridiculous, so I'm relieved that Jake is in too big of a hurry to film us. I just hope there aren't any cameramen on the top decks of the shi
