Free Monstrum by Ann Christopher Page A

it? It’s not even a quarter of a mile away!”
    This prompts another round of looking and head shaking by all of us. My eyesight is pretty good, and I can’t discern anything. Not a light or a boat’s outline—not even the suggestion of a shadow or anything with a form. Just water and sky in every direction.
    Apparently I’m not the only one coming up empty. “I don’t see anything,” Sammy says, and An and Maggie also shake their heads.
    Mrs. Torres, who’s now vibrating with a frantic energy, ignores us. Standing on her tiptoes, she waves her hands back and forth over her head, focuses her gaze on something only she can see, and tries to catch the attention of someone on the invisible yacht.
    â€œWe’re here!” she screams desperately. “Over here!”
    â€œMami.” Espi sounds concerned as she touches her mother’s arm. “I think you’re confused.”
    â€œNo! No! I’m not confused! Why doesn’t anyone help me?” Mrs. Torres whirls to accuse us. Her voice is shrill and irrational and heading straight for hysterical. “Don’t just stand there! Help me! They’ll never hear me over the music if the rest of you don’t yell with me!”
    There is no music.
    Murphy decides to step in. Picking his way out of his raft, into ours, and around the supplies in the bottom, he arrives at Mrs. Torres’s side and wraps a supportive arm around her shoulders.
    â€œWhy don’t you sit down for a minute and rest yourself,” he begins.
    â€œRest? We can’t
rest
! What’s wrong with you people? We don’t have time to rest! The yacht’s almost gone!” Wrenching free, she drops to her knees and begins rummaging through the supplies. “Where are the flares? We need to light a flare so they’ll see us and come! Who hid the flares?”
    Aghast, the rest of us stand around uselessly and stare at her.
Poor Mrs. Torres,
I think. Is this a nervous breakdown unfolding before our disbelieving eyes? Was she unhinged to begin with? What’s the protocol when you’re trapped with an unstable person in the middle of the ocean? Do we need to worry about her doing something stupid? I have no idea what everyone else’s plan is, but I’m sort of hoping she’ll wear herself out and we can get down to the business of searching the rest of the bags for water and food. And for weapons strong and sharp enough to pierce an orca’s hide.
    We watch in a mortified silence while Espi puts a soothing hand on her mother’s shoulder and tries—with no visible success—to calm her down.
    Meanwhile, I’m fighting my own losing battle with anxiety.
    Dread cranks steadily higher inside me, and I can’t hold it back any more than I can hold an inflated balloon under water. It makes my muscles tight and my breath short, and beneath my arms, I can feel clammy sweat despite the chill.
    At best, we’d only had two adults left to guide and protect us through this ordeal, and now we don’t even have that.
    Murphy tries to be the voice of reason. “Mrs. Torres,” he says gently. “We haven’t found any flares. We’ve been looking, but—”
    â€œLiars!” Mrs. Torres pauses her frenzied search long enough to drop her face into her hands and roar with frustration. This goes on and on while she rocks back and forth and writhes as though her soul is being ripped from her body. “Why are you all lying to me?”
    â€œOh, my God,” Espi claps a hand over her own mouth and tries to control her crying, making her shoulders shake with effort. “What’s wrong with her? What’s happening?”
    In a reflexive female move that supersedes the years of dislike and hard feelings, Maggie and An surround Espi on either side and put their arms around her.
    Murphy is still working on Mrs. Torres. Bending at the waist, he grasps her under the arms and