Page 1 of For the Strange and Surprising

Prologue

Adelaide

I shove the meager aluminum boat away from the rickety dock with my foot and wobble before catching my balance. I’ll be miserable if I start this day with an impromptu dip in the Gulf of Mexico.

At least it’s warm, I think to myself before snorting.

I move to the end, dropping the rope as I start up the outboard motor and steer myself away from the pier. I won’t catch anything today; it’s too sunny. But a few hours on the water will do me good.

The handle of the Mercury motor feels odd in my hand, the worn material rough against my palm. I’ve never steered on my own before. Not without my dad in the boat, guiding me over the calm water to his favorite drop-off.

When the shore is thin on the horizon, I kill the engine and open my tackle box. I pull out an array of lures and bait, wondering if any of it will bless me with nibbles.

“Steady, Ada,” I copy what my dad would have said. “See the clouds rolling in? As soon as the first drops hit the surface... That’s all we need, baby girl. Just a few drops.”

The lure I choose is a shining, purple monstrosity, but it wiggles with the current. It’s less work for me, so it feels like a win. I stare at the minnows in disgust, knowing I won’t be putting them on the hook by myself. Buying them is a habit I’m not sure I want to break.

I sigh as I glare at the darkening clouds. “I guess I’ll have to unhook my own fish now, huh, Dad? I’m not ready to be a solo fisherman. You know that, right?”

I make sure all the parts are where they’re supposed to be before I cast the first line. I can’t explain which steps go first, but the motions are second nature after twenty years of fishing.

Usually, I’d take this fishing trip with my dad, but I lost him three months ago. This is the first time I’ve been without him. And now I’m floating, lost at sea, with no captain to direct me. I’m a morose one-woman crew.

As I swing the pole out to my right, the knowledge that my fishing partner isn’t at my back knocks the breath out of me.

We’ve gone on this exact outing every year since my mother died. Today marks the twelfth anniversary of her passing. That pain had dulled to nothing but a slight pang over time, but it had resurfaced after the car accident.

I watch the lure sink below the surface of the water. And my chest tightens with the pressure of my sorrow. I feel like I am the purple monstrosity, slowly sinking, only to be swallowed up by something bigger than I can fend off.

Anxiety attacks are a bitch.

I try to busy my hands as I mindlessly work through breathing exercises. I prop my rod on the homemade stand my dad added to our tiny boat. Then I begin to straighten all the lures in my tackle box, placing the new ones on the left and the old ones on the right.

When that doesn’t work, I lean back and observe as the clouds roll in. They cover the sun, casting a monotone glow over the world around me. Everything darkens, and as the first drop of rain hits the surface, I catch my first nibble of the day.

I jolt upright, grabbing the fishing pole to start my side of the fight, but whatever I’ve caught is angry. I can’t see it from my vantage point, but it jerks the entire ten-foot aluminum boat, dragging me along for the ride.

I scramble to find my pocketknife in the tackle box, refusing to let the rod go but more than willing to cut the line. This fish is too big for me to haul in.

The shoreline disappears from my sight as the bottom falls out of the sky. The boat rocks in a sickening motion as I struggle to open my knife.

The line won’t cut fast enough to free me from this nightmare of a joy ride. I saw and saw with the dull blade until I finally cut through half the string. It snaps, throwing me into the middle bench as my ass hits the ribbed bottom of the boat.

I sit and heave deep lungfuls of air as I curse myself.

“Stupid, Ada. This was fucking stupid. I should have brought someone with me, or better yet, rented a bigger boat.”

As I move to the bench that battered my back, I glance around and realize that the fish pulled me too close to the brewing storm. I start the outboard motor back up and opt to follow two distant parachuters, hoping they’ll lead me to the shore.

I get closer to the skydivers, but the horizon is still blue all around me. The waves pummel my tiny boat, threatening to flip me over. The storm steadily moves forward, drenching me with its torrential rains.

My dark auburn hair sticks to my face as the wind howls around me. The wall of clouds rolls past me, and I feel like I’m stuck in the water, moving nowhere even though I hear the motor roaring.

I use my left hand to fumble around the tackle box for the laminated picture my dad always kept with him. And when I find it, I tuck it in my shirt so I can feel it sticking to my damp skin. As silly as it is, having the memory close to my heart soothes me enough to think clearly.

To my right, I see an approaching speed boat with a young girl steering. Her blonde hair flies wildly around her face, but it looks as if she isn’t moving either.

In front of me, the skydivers get sucked in by the winds. The cords of their chutes tangle together. Their bodies slam into each other, heads hanging as if they’ve been knocked out from the impact.