The troublemaker was kicked back into the cabin. The brief commotion was like an inconsiderate pebble, vanishing in an instant amid the raging waves without making the slightest splash.
The steady loss of body heat and the inability to keep their balance were enough to consume everyone's attention. Everyone on deck wished they could grow suction cups, fuse themselves to the ship, and have no time to worry about anything else.
Except Oliver.
He was having a hard time too, of course. Only when he realized that no matter how hard he squeezed, his hands couldn't get a firm enough grip did he notice his gloves had somehow gotten wet. The freezing seawater had made the leather stick to his skin, leaving both stiff and numb.
Even so, his duties as captain and certain hard-to-describe concerns kept drawing his gaze toward the sea, toward the water off the port side.
From this angle, he could just make out the waves pushing them forward.
Blurry white lines chased them from behind, one after another, appearing at roughly the same intervals. The farther out he looked, the more regular they seemed—unnaturally regular.
They always appeared at about the same distance, rose at about the same moment, split around either side of the stern, slid away, then converged again in the distance.
If he ignored the irresistible force behind them, the rhythmic scene was almost hypnotic.
As he watched, it felt like being caught in a waking dream. The visual pattern slowly seeped into his body. His breathing unconsciously fell into its rhythm, and his racing heart began to slow.
Even the imminent danger seemed farther away, wrapped in a soft illusion. The white lines gradually lost their meaning in reality, becoming a recurring image in a dream—bright, clean.
He had to admit