Just swim to the damn boat and get it over with.

Over many years and several oceans, he had swam a lot of open water, so no big deal—until he stood on the transom and looked down. There were so many sharks—one the size of a canoe—that the giddy sense of relief he felt was replaced by a new empathy: if there were survivors adrift out here, they wouldn’t survive long.

•   •   •

ON THE BOAT NOW, he reached down, grabbed the corpse’s belt, and noticed a shadow. Water exploded. He fell back with a pair of ragged shorts in his hand, that’s all. The dead man, if it was a man, was gone. Ford leaned over to confirm: below, far below, in shafts of angling light, only shadows and a sprinkling detritus remained.

He thought: There can’t be anyone else alive.

In the shorts, he found a wad of pesos, all worthless Cuban scrip. Folded within was the prize: a twenty-dollar bill, American. A wallet in the back pocket contained a photo ID, laminated: Alex Molera, Department of Sanitation, village of Cojimar, plus the equivalent of a Social Security number. A final treasure hidden under a flap: an antique cameo, the photo obliterated, on a necklace of beads and cowrie shells.

Santería, the unofficial religion of Cuba.

At idle speed, Ford did a slow circle of what had been a homemade raft: oil drums for outriggers, bamboo lashed to blocks of Styrofoam. Small; no engine, but a rigging pole suggested they had improvised a sail. Fewer than five people, he guessed, but no telling. In Cuba, desperation spawned crazy optimism. They would choose a secret spot and bet their dreams on vessels they constructed of wood, tar, inner tubes, and hope. Every year, thousands succeeded. Every year, unknown hundreds died.

Something else: on this raft, a child had been aboard, a girl. He shifted to neutral and retrieved a plastic doll with nylon hair and a bright red dress. Floating nearby was a Tupperware canister. It contained family photos, an address book, and the girl’s medical records. Rosa Molera, age four, had been in good health when she, her father Alex, and her mother had been crushed by a cruise ship or freighter, registry unknown or yet to be reported.

Ford stowed the items beneath the deck but couldn’t let it go after that.

Maybe a second raft had been hit.

He switched the radio to 83-Alpha, used exclusively by Coast Guard personnel, and followed a spattering of debris as he listened. The cloud bank lifted, creating a white dome that drifted with him at idle speed. He could no longer hear the helicopter, but it was visible on radar from thirteen miles away, distinctive because of its speed. From what the radar told him, and what he heard on VHF, at least one other vessel had been hit by the robot ship. The Coast Guard had clustered its assets, boats and a chopper, working one small section of water to the southwest. They had found wreckage, too.

Ford turned northeast.

Fifteen minutes, he told himself. Then I’m gone.

Twenty minutes later, he spotted a wooden pallet. Nothing strange about that. He’d already seen a couple, probably dumped by passing ships. This pallet, however, was industrial-sized and covered with what looked like plastic bottles, hundreds of them, draped under shrimp net.

Check thermal imaging: a shapeless heat signature that, probably, was plastic warmed by the sun.

Trash. For a millennium, mariners had used the ocean as a dumping ground, but now, unlike the mariners, their garbage was impervious to the centuries.

Ford veered away and shifted to neutral to prepare for the sixty miles of open water that lay ahead. The boat’s T-top and the electronics tower folded forward to reduce radar signature. Another stealthy touch was the neoprene spray hood coated with radar-absorbent paint. He pulled it taut, secured the cover with carabineers, then re-coiled the safety line he’d readied just in case he had to go into the water again.

Dumbass, he reminded himself. At sea, when alone, never lose contact with your vessel. A cardinal rule.

Port side on his boat, a door opened into a storage area beneath the helm. It was a large space, enough room for a chemical toilet, a handheld shower, and an electrically cooled Igloo. He ducked inside to grab a Diet Coke and a bag of peanuts. Or would a sandwich be better? He was deciding when he heard a radio transmission: a girl’s voice that warned “¡Silencio! Va a atraer a los tiburones.”

Ford translated without giving it much thought: Be quiet! You are attracting sharks.

Odd, though. Why was a child transmitting on a channel used exclusively by the Coast Guard?

Then, again in Spanish, he heard, “I’m tired of paddling with my hands, you brat, and you are not my boss.”

Not the same voice . . . And it wasn’t coming from the radio.

The console door was small. Ford banged his head going out. He idled closer to the pallet.

It took some cajoling. Soon, the pile of bottles stirred, netting parted, and two frightened girls appeared, both in flowered dresses, the oldest no more than thirteen.

No . . . only one was frightened. The younger was pissed. “You can’t arrest me,” she hollered in Spanish, “because I’ll swim.”

Ford didn’t speak down to children, believed it was demeaning to both. “That’s foolish. It’s better to get on my boat while we wait for the Coast Guard. Are you thirsty?”

“So they can arrest us,” the girl countered. “Fascists in uniforms. It’s a lie, and I won’t be tricked by a gringo fascist. I’m warning you, stay away.”

“No one’s going to arrest you. I have water and sandwiches; peanuts, if you want. Key West is thirty miles. Can you swim thirty miles? Even if you can, you’ll need to eat something for energy.”

“To hell with Key West, I want to go home. I’ll swim home if you try to make me go to Gringolandia.”

The older girl was less agitated. He spoke to her. “How long have you been adrift? You need water and medical attention. Please explain this to . . . Is she your sister?”

A nod, the older girl saying, “She’s mad because she didn’t want to come to America. Then this happened. She gets mad a lot.”

“How many people were on your raft?”

The sisters bickered for a moment, the older one finally saying, “Three—five, counting us—but a large ship hit us and that was the last we saw of the others.”

Ford assumed their parents were dead, so Cuba and Tomlinson would have to wait. He spoke more gently. “I’m a fisherman, not the Coast Guard. No uniform, no gun, see?” He extended his hands for inspection and smiled. “You’re safe with me, I promise. No one will force you to do anything. I promise that, too. You’ll be more comfortable on my boat while we talk. Have a look, then decide.” He started the engines.

That’s all it took. The youngest girl launched herself into the water while her sister yelled warnings about sharks.

Ford did it again—went over the side without a safety line.

•   •   •

THEIR NAMES were Maribel and Sabina Esteban, ages thirteen and ten, no relation to the Alex Molera family, but they had been paying customers aboard the same raft. In recent years, more and more parents had sent their children alone in the hopes of a better life in Norteamérica.

He gave them bananas and peanut butter on bread, which they ate, but they refused Gatorade and even a can of cold condensed milk, which Ford thought might be good for children. The pallet that had saved their lives was loaded with bottles that had been filled for the long trip, so they weren’t dehydrated, nor were they sunburned. A few careful questions confirmed they needed no crème for rashes, no medicine for sickness, and their disinterest when he demonstrated the toilet calmed his concerns about diarrhea.

Even so, he had only two options: contact the Coast Guard or take them to Key West. That would require some convincing, especially ten-year-old Sabina, who was a fireball, smart and perceptive, and suspicious of Ford’s every move.