Chapter 8: Madeline

By the time dinner wraps, I’ve learned at least ten ways to tie a rope, seven names for “mildly hazardous weather,” and that Liam once fell asleep on a flotation barrel during his shift and nearly floated into international waters.

“And I’d do it again,” he says, proud, wiping sauce off his cheek with the heel of his hand.

It’s a weird, wonderful kind of chaos around the table. Dishes scraped clean, second helpings already gone, and everyone’s a little looser now—shoulders dropped, jokes sharper, everything easier. Even Sloane has cracked a few smiles at Finn’s antics, though none of them are aimed in my direction.

Which, at this point, feels intentional.

Charlie had warned me subtly—with a look, a shift of her shoulder, a little half-smile that said don’t bother. And I get it. Sloane, I learn, is a boat captain. One of the youngest ever hired by the company, Charlie says. She’s thirty, and she commands a vessel named the Vigil. That tracks. She feels like someone you’d name a ship after. Strong. Hard to read. Dangerously calm. She’s got the vibe of someone who’s seen everything twice and isn’t impressed by much.

Still, I can’t help noticing the way her eyes skim over me like I’m part of the furniture.

She doesn’t warm up to me. Not even a little.

She laughs at Finn’s jokes, tells Liam to shut up with a fond smirk, and even teases Charlie once. But toward me? Cold. Measured. Like she’s waiting for me to prove myself—or fail.

Finn and Liam are still riffing about “harbor hazards” and “kitchen sink trauma,” but when things calm a little, someone finally asks, “So, Madeline… what about you?”

It's Charlie. Of course it’s Charlie—casual, smooth, like she’s just tossing it out there and not lowkey trying to help me arrive in the conversation.

I smile, because I know how this goes.

“Oh, well, not much to tell,” I say lightly. “I did some volunteer work during school. Assisted on a couple water sampling projects up north. Mostly lab-based stuff until now.”

“You’ve never worked on a boat?” Liam asks, eyes wide.

“Not a real one. Kayaks don’t count, I guess.”

Finn gasps. “You’ve never slipped and almost cracked your skull on a wet deck while untangling a snarl of rope in the middle of a freezing rainstorm?”

“Not… yet?”

“Oh little lady,” he says, clapping dramatically. “We’re gonna change your life.”

“You’ll love it,” Liam adds, grinning. “It’s like camping, but wet and exhausting and half the time your lunch tastes like diesel.”

“And you?” I ask. “You’re both deckhands, right?”

“Yup,” he says proudly. “Seamen, technically.”

“You have to stop saying it like that,” Finn deadpans. “We’ve talked about this.”

“It’s literally the term!”

“Use ‘deckhand.’ Save us all.”

Liam turns to me. “We tie the boats up at the wharf, handle ropes, load gear, jump dramatically onto moving docks—”

“He’s glamorizing it,” Finn cuts in. “We’re glorified rope wranglers with seasonal waterproofing and a caffeine addiction.”

“He’s not wrong,” Charlie says.

“What about you?” I ask her.

She shrugs, sipping her wine. “Admin. I handle the logistics. Boat schedules, permits, equipment requests, invoices. I’m basically the ocean’s paper-pusher.”

“But she’s important,” Finn says, nodding solemnly.

Charlie rolls her eyes. “I work more closely with the management team, so I’m involved in the project planning and budgeting.”

I think of the email from Samantha—about the owner. The man who’ll be “assessing” me Tuesday.

I want to ask. I really do.

But Charlie is halfway through telling me about the time she booked the wrong boat for two crews and caused a “civil war on the dock,” and then Liam starts doing a dramatic reenactment with a dinner roll, and I never find the moment.

I stay open, light, friendly. I answer the usual get-to-know-you questions with carefully edited versions of the truth. I keep it vague—family, schooling, how I found the job posting. I say I’ve always loved the water. That I needed a change.

That part isn’t a lie.

I don’t tell them about the real reason I’m here, in a small forgotten pocket of Atlantic Canada, in a house full of strangers with too many boots and not enough insulation. I don’t say anything about how fast I packed. How relieved I felt when the plane lifted off. How sometimes running feels less like fear and more like freedom.

I don’t mention him.

It’s not time for that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Everyone here, though?

They’re exactly what I didn’t know I needed.

Liam’s twenty-one, technically younger than me, but somehow the human embodiment of a sugar crash. He talks fast, tells stories like he’s trying to beat a timer, and laughs at his own jokes before anyone else has time to catch them. Every time he opens his mouth, it’s a gamble between idiocy and brilliance.

Finn, at twenty-three, is what I imagine happens when someone teaches a golden retriever how to write satire. He’s got that dry, rapid-fire energy—someone who can kill a joke with one eyebrow lift and then revive it again with a muttered punchline when no one’s looking.

Together, they’re a menace.

“I swear,” Finn is saying now, stacking plates while Liam fumbles with an empty wine bottle, “if you load the dishwasher like a raccoon with a concussion again, I’m going to file a report.”

“You can’t file reports.”

“Bet me.”

“Bet what?”

“Your bunk.”

“Absolutely not.”

Charlie and I linger near the counter, watching them fight over dish placement like it’s a strategic sport. I could offer to help, but Charlie just nudges me gently with her elbow.

“House rules,” she says. “Cooks don’t clean.”

“I feel like that’s dangerous with those two.”

“Oh, it is. But it’s tradition.”

I glance over as Liam sprays Finn with the sink hose and Finn, without missing a beat, dramatically collapses into a chair like he’s been mortally wounded. He makes an ugh sound that might be a death rattle or a hiccup.

Sloane’s long gone. Slipped out halfway through cleanup with a muttered “early shift tomorrow” and a look that didn’t invite questions. Charlie didn’t blink. I think that’s just how Sloane exits—without fanfare, without explanation.

I consider asking Charlie about the email again, the one from Samantha—the part where she said "the owner will assess your skillset… he's a little rough around the edges." There’s something about that phrasing that’s been looping in my head all night, like a riddle I’m too tired to solve. But I don’t get the chance. Charlie’s busy drying glasses and Liam has somehow managed to wedge a plate behind the faucet.

So I let it go. For now.

I drift toward the window, pulling the curtain aside just enough to peek outside.

The sky’s gone completely dark. The kind of dark that’s deep, not city dark—no orange glow on the horizon, no streetlight buzz. Just shadows and stars and a moon that’s barely holding its own.

The village looks like it’s folded into itself. Quiet. Still. Half-asleep.

“I think I’m gonna go for a little walk,” I say.

Liam pauses, mid-drying a fork on his shirt. “Outside?”

“No, in the crawlspace.” I raise an eyebrow. “Yes, outside.”

“It’s so dark,” Finn says, like he’s personally offended.

“Is it dangerous?”

Charlie shrugs. “Not really. This place shuts down by nine unless it’s a festival or a fire.”

“Which it’s not,” Liam adds, helpfully. “I think. I haven’t checked.”

“Half the town’s probably asleep by now,” Finn says. “Or deeply involved in some soap opera rerun.”

“Exactly.” I pull my coat from the hook. “So it’s the perfect time to disappear mysteriously into the night.”

Charlie eyes me. “You do that and I’m not covering for you.”

“You totally would, though.”

She sighs. “Yeah. I would.”

I grab my hat from the top of the stairs and tug it on, pulling my coat tighter around me as I turn back to the kitchen.

Liam gives a mock salute. “Godspeed, mysterious newcomer.”

Finn crosses his arms. “If you die, I want your books.”

Charlie throws a towel at him. “Shut up.”

And I smile.

Not because it’s funny. Not just that.

But because, for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m about to come undone. Not tonight. Not here.

The door creaks softly as I open it. The wind hits my face with a rush of salt and cold, and it smells like pine, distant smoke, and the kind of quiet that hums just beneath your skin.

I step outside and close the door behind me.

And the night swallows me whole.