I remember the last day.

This had become a nightly routine for Maere. As she lay in her hammock, struggling to sleep, she brought back dead memories.

"Please, Papa, please?" I begged, resting my head on Papa's shoulder. "I'll be good! I won't–"

"Sweetheart, not this time."

"Why, Papa?"

"It's not safe. There's a storm coming."

There was a gap in the memory there for Maere. She remembered herself begging to go on the boat with Papa, and she remembered the room darkening with storm clouds. Her eleven-year-old brain couldn't comprehend the danger of being on the ocean in a storm. Eleven-year-old Maere had only ever been on a boat on calm waters, the sun shining, the sea pristine and glimmering. She'd never seen how the waters could flash to silver in a split second, or how gentle waves could build swaying towers that fell all around, caging boats within rings of water.

She only knew the sea as with her father.

She had stayed curled in a fuzzy blanket on her living room sofa with a book, waiting for her father to come home for far longer than she should have. Thunder shook Maere's tiny coastal cabin, lightning dramatically burning spidery patterns into the backs of Maere's eyelids.

That night, as rain pounded the roof, she finally tiptoed from the couch to her bedroom. Wind howled frenzied songs outside her window, screaming their fury to the night. Maere struggled to close the heavy, splintery storm blinds over her windows. The sills wept cold tears of rain that collected in the cracks of Maere's floorboards. Her arms were small and skinny at eleven years old, and her papa had always been there, a strong and steady force to protect her from nature's rage. Tonight, she was on her own, and she rationalized this in her mind. He has found a place to stay for the night. He will be here when you wake up.

She didn't sleep. Her blankets felt wrong– too loose. The monsters could slither through the cracks where her father hadn't tucked her in. As the storm calmed the slightest bit, Maere stood from her bed. The floor was cold and damp. Maere's feet, which were already grimy from the day's play, made pattering sounds on the puddles of rainwater that had collected on the floor. The door to her father's room creaked as she pushed it open, only daring to use her fingertips.

The room was empty and cold, and Maere shivered, pulling her blanket closer around her. She was careful to keep the edges lifted off the floor– her papa would be mad if he had to wash her blanket.

Maere leaned on the bed, just barely touching her hips to the mattress. It was cold and damp, like everything in her house. She lifted her feet from the creaky floor, resting them on the large chest at the end of her father's bed. That chest was his prize possession, the thing he loved most. It contained some of Maere's mother's things, but this was all she knew.

Maere woke laying on top of her papa's quilt, by herself. Weak sunlight filtered through the window to her right, illuminating the dust in the air. Maere sneezed, sitting up and taking in the room. A swampy puddle sat under the window, occasionally rippling from drops that still wormed their way through the window sash.

"Papa?" Maere's voice was small, but seemed impossibly loud, echoing through the silent house and settling back into Maere's ears. "PAPA?"

There was no response. Maere walked to the door, then broke into a sprint down the short hall to the living room. Her heart soared. I will turn this corner and Papa will be on the couch, and he'll smile and say "Hello Jax" and everything will be okay.

That didn't happen.

Instead, deafening silence greeted Maere.

Being a child, perhaps Maere's panic wasn't as strong as it should have been. She hadn't registered how strange it was that her father had been gone almost twenty-four hours now. Instead, she wandered to the kitchen, all the while assuring herself that her father was having a morning drink in a coastal tavern a few towns away and would be back by evening. She spun and waved her arms to a tune only she could hear as she made herself a toasted sandwich, spread jelly over it, and cleaned the knife. Papa will be so proud, she thought. I'm so responsible. He'll take me on the next trip when he sees how good I've been.

Maere waited. She made herself lunch and cleaned her dishes. He'll be so proud.

She read her book on the couch for what seemed like forever, but when she looked at the clock, it had only been twenty minutes. She picked up her notebook and worked out some math problems. He'll take me on his next trip. He'll hug me and tell me he's sorry for the delay. Maybe he'll bring me a pearl.

He didn't come that night.

Ren Trist never came home.

Maere only found out about this when a woman showed up at her door four days later. She was dressed severely in a frighteningly clean white dress, her hair greased back and twisted in a bun so tight it looked like a rock atop her head. Maere giggled at the thought as she opened the door.

The woman walked briskly into Maere's house without a word, breezing past her and into the living room. She took a seat on the couch.

"Would you be Jax Trist?" she asked. Her voice was crisp, but not unkind. Her face was bare of makeup, but flawless all the same. Maere flinched as the woman said her name.

"Yes," she said slowly. "Who are you?"

"I am Miss Remere."

Maere frowned, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

"Are you home alone presently?" Miss Remere asked, looking Maere up and down. Maere knew she looked horrible– her shirt was torn, as were most of her clothes, and under the too-big, crookedly-buttoned shirt was one of her mother's skirts that she'd dug out nof her father's big chest last night. She'd woken late at night feeling inexplicably terrible, and for a reason she'd only discover later, the skirt helped. She was glad it was hidden by the long shirt as this strange woman eyed her.

"Yes." Maere's voice was small, barely there and terrified. She twirled a piece of her jaw-length, loose black hair around her finger. It hadn't been taken care of for days and probably had all kinds of things caught in it.

"How long have you been here by yourself?" Miss Remere's voice softened noticeably with sympathy. Maere's chest dropped with dread.

"Five days." She whispered, knowing what was coming.

"Maere, I'm so sorry. Your father's boat–

"No." Maere's voice rang out suddenly, making Miss Remere flinch. "Don't tell me. I know." Tears sprang to her eyes. "I'll get my things."

Maere walked calmly out of the room, then broke into a run as she made her way to her room. The skirt fell to her ankles, and she left it there. She allowed herself ten seconds to fall apart, laying with her face pressed into the quilt on her bed, and screamed. No one can hear me. The only one who ever heard me was Papa.

She pulled herself back together, binding it in place with a stony expression. She looked around her room, taking the few things in her bedside drawer, a couple of armfuls of clothes, and dropped them into a burlap bag. She tied it shut, then hesitated. I'm forgetting something.

Without looking, Maere took the skirt from the floor and shoved it in her bag.

Instead of taking her to the living room, her feet carried her to her father's bedroom. The chest creaked as she opened it.

She thrust the bag, which bulged slightly with as many of Maere's mother's skirts as would fit, at Miss Remere's feet. "Take me away."

The woman picked up the bag, studying Maere with soft eyes. "Jax, let me know if you need anything. Are you sure you have everything from here?"

Maere nodded, struggling to keep her face stony. She couldn't help but flinch at the sharpness of her name.

Miss Remere led Maere to a car. Maere had only seen a car once or twice, let alone ridden in one, and she would have been excited if her destination hadn't been so grim. Miss Remere set Maere's bag in the back seat, and Maere climbed in next to it, silently examining the interior of the car. Everything had a gleaming silver tag on it, reading FORD. Maere didn't know what that meant, but was too miserable to ask. She thought if she tried to speak she might cry.

Maere closed her eyes. She hoped to drown everything out, or maybe even drown herself. Do not think about drowning, Maere scolded herself. This phrase would become increasingly common in Maere's mental vocabulary in the next few years.