Free Extinct by Ike Hamill

said. “We’re coming back, remember? Besides, Carl’s keys are on that ring.”
    “Thank goodness for your memory," Sarah said. “You start running, I’m right behind you.”
    Robby hunched as low as he could, carrying the heavy box, and shuffling towards the pier. Sarah closed up the Jeep and followed close. The bags banged into her hips and nearly knocked her off her feet as she and Robby ran.
    Carl’s boat bobbed and banged against its fenders. Robby started feeling nauseous just looking at the swaying motion. He skidded to a stop near the stern. The snow on the pier was slushy from the damp air and Robby almost lost his footing. He set his box down on the pier and jumped onto the deck of Carl’s boat. Robby had only seen this boat from a distance—Carl usually kept it moored out in the harbor.  
    After the fishing tourism ended for the fall, Carl finagled a spot at the pier so he could replace the engine of his Cape Islander boat. Fortunately for Robby and Sarah, he’d just completed the job. He’d bought the boat for hauling lobster, but switched to hauling tourists instead. The boat looked huge and yet unsteady to Robby. His stomach flopped as the boat lurched from the swells pushed in by the storm.
    Robby leaned back towards the dock and tried to grab his box. He stopped and steadied himself on the rail, not sure if he would be sick. Sarah set down her box and tossed the duffel bags into the boat.
    “Get in the cabin,” she said. “I’ll get the boxes.”
    “You’ll need help shoving off,” Robby said.  
    “Get us untied then,” she said. Sarah grew up around boats. Being raised on the island you almost had to become familiar with them. But she hated the nervous tasks associated with launching or landing a boat. In her experience, when the mobile, freewheeling boats came in contact with the immovable piers, trouble ensued.
    Robby secured the bow line and looped the stern rope around the mooring while his mom moved the boxes and made her way to the cabin. Robby leaned over the edge, not knowing when his turkey sandwich would make a return visit. He fixed his gaze on the farthest thing he could see—the buildings up past the Jeep. He unlocked his knees and tried to float over the deck’s surface to keep his head steady.
    His mom was taking too long, he figured. She must be having trouble figuring out the…
    The big diesel engine turned over and black smoke puffed from the exhaust pipe at the back of the cabin. Robby got ready. His job would be to release the bow line and then pull in the fenders as his mom backed the boat from the pier. Sarah guided the boat back, making sure to clear some space between the boat and the pier as quickly as possible. The wind battled her steering, trying to push the boat back towards the pier.  
    When he’d pulled in the last fender, Robby started collecting their supplies. He dragged them towards the small cabin. When he opened the door, his mom surprised him.
    “Take the helm,” she said.
    “Pardon?” Robby asked.
    “Take the helm. Head for just to the right of that marker. I’ll stow everything below. Steering will help you deal with your seasickness,” she said.
    “What if I have to throw up?” Robby asked. He knew it would only only be a matter of time before his nausea kicked into overdrive. The swells in the harbor were tiny compared to what they would find once they cleared some distance from the island.
    “Here’s a barf-bag,” she said, rooting through the backpack, “and I packed you some soda crackers. Keep chewing on these.”
    Robby’s stomach felt like a tight knot. Tart saliva started to water in the back of his mouth. A tiny headache formed at the top of his skull. These were all signs of imminent upchuck. He took the wheel and gripped his fingers at ten and two. He understood the logic immediately—he was focused on the horizon, steadied by the wheel, and concentrating. All these activities should settle his stomach.
    The wind