Rosalind
No lights. Not a street light, not a light from a building. No headlights from a car. No glow from a smartphone. Not even a torch or a campfire or the light of a cigarette.
"This isn't happening," I say.
"Let's not panic," he says, obviously panicking. "Maybe there's a power outage or we've gone blind from drinking seawater."
"I'm not panicking," I lie. "I'm sure they've already got a search party out for me. I'm not nobody, you know."
"My mistake," Orlando says.
"We should make a fire. A distress SOS. Let's do that."
"Do you know how to make a fire?" he asks.
"Do I look like a Girl Scout?"
"No. You look like a drowned middle-management executive," he says.
Holy crap. He's right on the money. That's exactly what I am.
"So, you don't know how to make a fire?" I ask.
"
