Page 63 of Holding On

The engine revs, the sound carrying up the cliffside. The white wake forms a spreading V in the dark water as he pilots the boat back to Rockland Harbor.

Maya.

I drop the lead and scramble down the rocky face of the cliff trail as fast as I can. I leave my phone on a shelf of seagrass well out of the way of the incoming tide and race into the churning surf. Wading into hip-high water, I hook a wide U-turn back toward the mouth of the cave. I don’t know for sure if she’s here—I don’t know anything really—but this can’t be a coincidence.

My gut churns and panic rises. There’s a pulse in my throat that won’t go away.

Whatever she’s been working on, she’s in trouble now.

The cave is in twilight, but I know that will fade the deeper I go.

“Maya!” I hear her name over and over, echoing off the walls and drowning in the sounds of the surf, and I realize I’m shouting it. The water is up to my chest now, freezing cold, the waves curling and lapping at the walls of the granite.

“Maya!”

Now I have to feel my way through the bend. There are about thirty more feet, and then the caverns end. I’m swinging my arms wide, trying to span as much space as possible.

“Maya!”

My eyes are just beginning to adjust when I see a form to my left. Something large splashes into the water from a rocky point a foot above my head. In a few minutes, we’re both going to have to climb up there, maybe even higher, to stay clear of the incoming tide.

It’s her.

I dive into the black water, still a shock, and for a moment, there’s nothing.

Nothing.

I surface and then readjust my thinking. I note which way the shoaling waves are licking the walls of the cave and turn in that direction, take a deep breath, and squat rather than dive so I can stay on the mark.

It works.

I immediately feel her body—her head and an arm—and I grab her under the armpits and pull her up. The moment her head is above surface, I try to see her face, one arm completely wrapped around her.

I’ll never let go.

I can barely see her in the dark, but something warm is running down her face.

Blood.

She’s limp but conscious.

“Travis,” she whispers, and then she sags in my arm, her mouth slack, her eyes fluttering.

Hanging on to her in the rising water is treacherous. I try to stand her up again, but her head tips back, eyes sliding under her lids.

“Maya,” I try again. “Maya, we have to get out of here.”

Right now, I’m not worried about drowning. I’m worried about hypothermia.

“Okay,” she tries to say, but it comes out garbled. “My head.” I cup the back of her head. Blood instantly drips across my palm.

I know to my right is a shelf of rock I can prop her up on for a moment, so I try to move her there.

“Hang on,” I say, stripping off the sweatshirt. “Maya, hang on. You have to stand. Maya!” I hate shouting at her, but she’s responding, putting both hands on my shoulders and trying to support herself in the grip of the tide. I can’t tell if she’s drugged or concussed, but she tries.

“Put your arms around my neck,” I say in her ear, trying not to let my teeth chatter.

She seems oblivious to the cold, which means her core temperature is already dropping.