The marina is a ruin.
The dock is littered with suitcases and bags. More than one case has been broken open, spilling out a trail of clothes and cans of food and kitchen utensils and books and even some fine, if now dirty, lingerie.
They collect up cans as they walk. Here and there, she sees evidence of violence. A smear of blood. A broken plank of wood. b****y footsteps. Traces of violence. Each picture is a story. An equation. And every equation has its X.
Only four boats, the least seaworthy, remain. Eva’s father’s yacht is not among them. “Oh dear,” says Eva. “This might be a problem.”
“So which one do we steal?” Dany asks.
Eva walks along the dock, looking over their options, and Dany follows.
“There, let’s take that one,” Eva says finally and nods at the boat before her.
