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“Profound. Did you read that on a tea bag?”

“Mock all you want,” Amy said, unperturbed. “But answer me this: when was the last time you did something just because it made you happy? Not for Noah, not for work, not for anyone else, just for you?”

The question caught Kelsey off guard. She opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again.

“That’s what I thought,” Amy said, not unkindly. “Look, I’m not saying quit your job tomorrow and become my business partner. I’m saying consider what would bring you joy, and then do more of that. Life’s too short. You of all people should understand that.”

From the path ahead of them, they could hear Noah and Tyler arguing good naturedly about pizza toppings, Ollie’s occasional bark punctuating their debate.

“I’m not unhappy,” Kelsey said finally. “Just… adjusting.”

Amy’s skeptical expression spoke volumes. “If you say so.”

“I do.” Kelsey nudged her sister.

They left Amy at her cottage and walked past their empty one. It seemed so small now. She tried to keep up behind the boys, following their voices through the dense pines as they argued. Apparently, Tyler wasn’t happy with the idea of pineapple and ham on his pizza.

Amy was right. When was the last time she’d done something purely for her own happiness? She couldn’t remember.

The realization was unsettling.

Mac couldn’t stop looking at his watch. Eight hours and he’d be in port. Eight hours until he could step off the Nereid and get to the next harbor with a proper marine electrician. The satellite phone needed fixing, and quickly.

He adjusted the mainsail, catching the strengthening afternoon breeze. The horizon ahead remained clear, the weather report promising fair conditions all the way to Porto Santo. The small Portuguese island wasn’t his first choice for making landfall, but it had the supplies and expertise he needed before continuing his journey.

Three weeks ago, he would have reveled in these perfect sailing conditions—steady wind, moderate seas, the vast Atlantic stretching endlessly around him. Even now, part of him appreciated the solitude and the rhythm of life at sea. This was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? Freedom, independence, the open horizon.

But his satellite phone lay useless in the navigation station drawer, waterlogged beyond repair. The electrical incident that had fried his communication systems had been concerning. One moment he’d been in contact with the world, the next, utterly alone—no way to call for help if needed.

From what he could tell, the damage was caused by some loose wiring that almost looked as though it had been tampered with. Regardless of the cause, the effect had been complete.

Standing in the cabin, staring at the dead equipment, Mac had felt a moment of unease. But he’d convinced himself this was just a temporary setback. He could make repairs in Porto Santo and be on his way.

Mac checked the wind indicator again, making a minor adjustment to catch the best angle. A sudden gust snapped the mainsail taut, and the boom creaked with tension. Mac adjusted the sheet automatically.

Lost in thought, Mac barely registered the darkening sky to the west. The approaching weather system wasn’t on his charts, wasn’t in the forecast he’d checked that morning. He frowned and double checked the instruments on his navigation station. The barometer was dropping rapidly—too rapidly.

“Damn it,” he muttered, then returned to the deck to survey the horizon. The previously clear sky had developed an ominous band of clouds, moving faster than seemed possible.

He needed to reduce sail immediately. The Nereid could handle rough weather, but not with full canvas deployed. Mac moved quickly, securing loose items on deck before turning his attention to the rigging. The wind was picking up already, the gentle rocking motion of the boat transforming into a more pronounced pitch and roll.

Muscle memory took over. He shortened sail, checked lines, prepared for the squall’s arrival. This was the danger of solo sailing—no one to take shifts, no one to help when conditions deteriorated rapidly. But Mac had decades of experience. He’d weathered worse.

The first lashing of rain struck as he finished securing the main. It came horizontally, driven by wind that had seemingly doubled in strength within minutes. Mac squinted against the stinging droplets, making his way carefully back toward the cockpit. The deck pitched beneath him, slick with rain.

He reached for the safety line he always trailed when sailing solo. Old habits, drilled into him by his father. Never move on deck in rough weather without being tethered. The ocean was unforgiving of mistakes.

But before he could reach the line, the boat lurched suddenly, caught between swells. Mac’s foot slipped on the wet deck. He grabbed for the boom, but his fingers slid off the rain-slick surface. For a suspended moment, he felt himself falling, the boat tilting away from him, the dark water rising to meet him.

Then impact—cold that stole his breath, pressure against his ears, the sudden absence of sound replaced by a muffled roaring. Disorientation as he tumbled beneath the surface, the weight of his foul-weather gear dragging him down.

Mac fought the instinctive panic, forcing his body to still, to orient. Surface. He needed to find the surface. He kicked hard to propel himself upward against the sodden weight of his clothing. His lungs began to burn and demand oxygen.

His head broke through into air and chaos. Rain lashing down, waves towering around him, the Nereid already twenty yards away and moving fast under bare poles. The safety line—his only connection to the boat, to survival—trailed in the water behind it.

“No!” The word was torn away by the wind as Mac began swimming desperately toward the retreating vessel. The safety line dragged through the water like a lifeline just beyond reach. The distance between them grew with each passing second, each wave that lifted him and dropped him into the troughs between.

Cold penetrated his layers, his muscles already beginning to stiffen. How long before hypothermia set in? An hour? Less in these conditions? His mind calculated survival odds with detached precision even as he fought to close the distance.