At first, Bette thought it was only the echo of her own scream, being flung back at her by the wind riding in across the waves. But the second cry, choked off in mid-crescendo, made her look up and out into the surf, seeing nothing at first, then a flash of light fabric tumbling in the water. She stood up for a better look, trying to determine what was washing up, and then caught her first glimpse of an arm flailing at the water. She took off down the beach at a full run, staying in the wet sand, which gave her better footing.

“Hang on! I’m coming!” she yelled to the struggling figure that suddenly seemed to go limp. Bette pumped her legs harder for more speed and plunged into the sea, screaming into the wind.

Shane had just wrapped the glassine decks of smack, and the straw in a little bundle with some seawood and a stone, and dropped it off the edge. I wonder if it’ll get the fish stoned, she thought as she watched $50 worth of good heroin sink under the wash of water against the seawall. She was on her way back to her truck when she heard someone screaming, and saw a woman trying to run through the surf toward something tossed around in the waves. She ran to the truck, fired it up and raced down the beach, spraying sand everywhere as she slammed to a stop and jumped out, leaving the motor running.

It must have been the angle of the sun against the water, but Bette could have sworn that the woman in the surf was engulfed in some kind of mist that seemed to hold a pair of shapes against the water and the wave-generated winds. The moment she reached through it, the mist dissolved and the shapes were gone as if never there.

But there was no time to think about what she thought she’d seen. Between the fact that the woman’s arms were wet and she was still flailing, Bette found it hard to get and hold a grip. It wasn’t until she had one arm in both her hands and was beginning to walk backward toward the beach that she realized who it was she was pulling out of the surf. “Marina?” Cold shock ran through her.