Syrina woke to heat and light and gentle bobbing that made her temples and hand pound in time with it. Her mouth was dry. She turned her head and squinted into the sky, looking for the sun. There it was, blazing high in the east. It was a few hours before noon. Her stomach lurched when she remembered, and she forced her gaze down to her hand. The flesh whirled and warped under the tattoos, which seemed to be trying to tie themselves back together again. Her middle and index finger were gone. The naphtha had reduced them to a charred lump of skin and bone. The knot in her stomach tightened and she dry-heaved, which shot new darts of agony through her chest.
Beneath the sun spread the shore—a strip of white sand, maybe a span away, burning just as bright. She must’ve rowed for hours to get
