Free The Stranger in the Lifeboat by Mitch Albom

into a rabbit hole and couldn’t stop himself from falling in deeper. Part of him kept pushing to go on, take the next step, learn the secrets of this unexpected entry into his life.
    He reread the message on the notebook’s inside cover:
    To whoever finds this—
    There is no one left. Forgive me my sins.
    I love you, Annabelle DeChapl—
    Who was Annabelle? Did the writer believe this notebook would find its way to her? And how much time did these pages represent? Did someone last days before succumbing to the sea? Or was it longer? Weeks? Months?
    Suddenly, the phone rang, and LeFleur jumped like a caught thief.
    He checked his watch. Nine-thirty on a Sunday night?
    â€œHello?” he said tentatively.
    â€œIs this Inspector LeFleur?”
    â€œWho’s this?”
    â€œMy name is Arthur Kirsh. I’m with the Miami Herald , just checking up on something.”
    LeFleur took a moment to respond.
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œCan you confirm that a life raft from the Galaxy yachthas been found on Montserrat? Did you find such a raft, sir?”
    LeFleur swallowed hard. He stared at the notebook in his lap.
    He hung up.

Sea
    Nevin is dead.
    Yesterday, he turned ghostly pale and slipped in and out of consciousness. He couldn’t eat a thing. At times he moaned so loudly, some of us covered our ears.
    â€œSomething got in that wound,” Geri whispered. “Some metal, or whatever he gashed himself on. The infection can’t clear. If sepsis has set in . . .”
    â€œWhat?” I said, hesitantly.
    â€œHe’s going to die?” Jean Philippe asked.
    Geri looked down. We knew that meant yes.
    Little Alice was the first to discover him. Just after sunrise, she tugged at my T-shirt. I thought Nevin was sleeping. But she lifted his hand and it dropped limply. Poor Alice. No child should have to bear witness to what she has seen on this raft. No wonder she doesn’t speak.
    We had a small ceremony. Nina said a prayer. We sat quietly, trying to collectively cobble together a eulogy. Finally Lambert said, “He was a hell of a programmer.”
    The Lord rose to his knees. “Surely there is more to say about him than that.” He was wearing the white dress shirt Yannis had on when the Galaxy went down. He looked around at all of us.
    â€œNevin had three kids,” I offered. “He wanted to be a good father.”
    â€œHe had a nice singing voice,” Yannis added. “Remember when he sang ‘Sloop John B’?”
    â€œDid he love others?” the Lord asked. “Did he tend to the poor? Was he humble in his actions? Did he love me?”
    Lambert made a face.
    â€œShow some respect,” he said. “The man’s dead.”
    * * *
    Last night I had a dream. I was sleeping in the raft when a noise stirred me. I looked up and the horizon was blocked by a giant ocean liner. Its white hull was enormous, dotted with portholes, and its decks were jammed with waving people, like those arriving in New York’s harbors at the turn of the century. Only somehow I knew these passengers were from the Galaxy. I heard them screaming “Where have you been?” and “We’ve been looking for you!” In the middle of them all was Dobby, with his longhair and toothy smile. He waved a bottle of champagne, motioning me to come join him.
    I awoke with a jolt and squinted into the rising sun. The horizon was empty. No ocean liner. No happy passengers. Just the world’s longest straight line, from here to oblivion.
    I felt my body physically deflate. At that moment, for some reason, the enormity of death began to hit me. I’m not sure why. I had never focused on dying before, Annabelle. I pushed the idea away. We all know we are going to die, but deep down, we don’t believe it. We secretly think there will be a late reprieve, a medical advance, a new drug that staves off our mortality. It’s an illusion, of