MIRJAM STANDS BY A DOOR, JAMMING the crowbar in place. Sanne and Fatima are already rummaging around inside an office, their lights occasionally flashing into the hallway. Max, for his part, has joined the twins jumping from one pile of rubble to the next.
I end up following Mirjam, who seems content to work together and chat about soccer without bringing up what happened yesterday. She wedges open office doors and locked cabinets; I help empty them out, sort the contents, and gather whatever she points at. A lot of it is silly stuff, pens and blank paper, but there's also tech left behind in abandoned corners that we pull apart and take parts of. We find emergency flashlights, a wind-up battery pack. It's cold as hell without our gloves, but wearing them slows us down too much.
"Didn't the ship stock up on these beforehand?" I hold a lined notebook. A corner logo advertises a security firm.
"Nassau again, I guess."
"What do you mean?"
She snorts. "I mentioned the government discarded this ship, right, and that's how Van Zand got his hands on it? Officially, the Nassau was too much of a risk and time investment for a ship that would only save a few hundred people. Van Zand took a chance on it—but he got a late start. All his time and effort went into finding the right people and equipment to repair the ship and set up a biosphere. You remember what my darling brother said yesterday about how no one minds us leaving the ship? He forgot to mention that so many people have to go in and out for the repairs that they can't possibly check every entrance. Security is a mess. Admittedly, Van Zand is so antimilitary that everything is a damn mess."
Her words take a long time to settle in.
Mirjam must take my silence for fear. "They know how to set priorities, is all. The ship'll run just fine. But, yeah, we might be short on paper and furniture and other basics." She plucks the notepad from my hands and stuffs it into the backpack we're dragging around. "We won't need half this stuff, but better to have it than not. Go check that drawer."
"They just … tell you this?" I ask finally.
"Of course. Full transparency means more trust and less panic." The roll of her eyes shows how much stock she places in that.
"About yesterday—" I start.
"What about it?" She tucks a lock of hair into her hood. "Everyone's having a hard time."
I suppose she's right. I only had to set foot outside or turn on the news to see people struggling. In my own house, though, I was the only one to seem affected—Mom and Iris rarely cried.
Around me, anyway.
A few minutes later, Mirjam has pried off a plate bolted to a wall. Behind it are tubes, wires, a metal container. "Some kind of fire-safety thing?" she guesses, then shouts for Max, who lights up when he sees it. He instantly starts pulling things apart.
"And that is why we bring Flaky Boy," she says, smirking.
"Shhh. Gimme that crowbar."
I hold open the backpack for Max to deposit parts in while Mirjam runs to grab some empty bottles Max says he needs. We go on like that, from room to room, until I know what I'm doing enough to hack open offices of my own. Each time, I take a second to check the windows for that wildfire Mom mentioned, but I must be on the wrong side of the airport, or there are buildings in the way, because I see no trace of it. Then I refocus on the office. I find a lot of the same items Mirjam and I gathered, and check with the others when I find items I'm unsure about. It's embarrassing to have to ask, but they're nice about it—sort of, in Sanne's case—and I sort the items into mental Yes and No boxes easily enough.
It's still slow going on my own, though. Even the twins are faster than I am, but no one comes close to Fatima and Sanne.
"It's not a contest, you two!" Mirjam calls when they cross each other in the hallway.
Max laughs his abrupt, loud laugh. He's been trotting from room to room, providing technical support, musing aloud about dusty security posters, and marking the rooms we've covered with a fat pen.
Sanne absentmindedly offers Mirjam her middle finger and follows Fatima into a different office. I pause by the door, peeking inside. I don't know if they're going so fast because they don't inspect their finds properly, or because they're just plain fast—but standing at the door for even twenty seconds tells me it's the latter. They go through each room like a very precise, very organized hurricane. Point flashlight, crack a cabinet, toss out the contents, pluck out this and that as though the necessary items are lit like beacons. Sanne walks past a bookshelf and grabs three books without hesitation.
"Max! Books!" She slides them to the door, where my feet stop them. By the time Sanne realizes I'm here, she's already across the room, bending by a desk to pry open the drawers. The flashlight lights her up perfectly. Again I'm reminded of how small she is: I guessed fourteen last night, but from the right angle, she might be twelve just as easily. The tip of her tongue sticks out in concentration. Then she slams the hammer onto the pick wedged into the office drawer, and for that split second, her face is all anger.
"If it were a contest," I say, recalling Mirjam's words, "you two would win hands down. Wow." I manage to smile, though it's awkward complimenting Sanne.
"They're kinda badass," Max marvels as he crouches to pick up the books Sanne slid toward my feet. He grins up at me, quick and self-conscious, and I think, If he is flirting, it's starting to work.
Maybe I'm just attention-starved: no one's flirted with me since the smooth, friendly Surinamese boys at Iris's festivals, and most of them weren't half as sincere as Max. They just saw a pretty light-skinned girl sitting off to the side and figured they'd try their luck, and they'd do the exact same with the next girl over when I wasn't what they'd hoped for. The cocky white guys at school weren't sincere, either—they'd never ask out the awkward Black girl—but every now and then would still leer and comment to get a reaction out of me.
It's not that I don't realize I'm pretty. I do, and I am. It's just that people have certain expectations of girls who look like I do—confidence and extroversion and sass—and that's not me. I've dressed up in Iris's clothes and makeup before, and when I looked at myself in the mirror, I thought, I look good; I look like a fraud.
Baggy sweaters help manage expectations, but they don't make it any easier to react when boys approach me, anyway.
I lightly tap my thighs and ask, "Is that … I mean, is it necessary to go through the offices this fast?"
Fatima laughs. She plucks a handful of pens from the mess in front of her. "We do have a hypothetical contest to win."
"Won and done." Max scans the book spines. They're research, how-tos. "We've got all this in the databases … Ah, this one, maybe! Nice going, Denise."
"I didn't …" But he's already taken the book and left.
"S' OK. You can have the credit," Sanne says. "You need it more."
I think she's being bitchy again, but then—is that a smile? It's gone again immediately, but I saw it. She must've meant it.
I get back to cracking open doors and searching rooms, a little faster each time. Whenever I pass through the hallway, though, I see them glancing at me, all nice again. I recognize something else now. Pity. Concern. I might not have noticed if not for Sanne earlier and all my experience with Mom.
With so many people raiding the offices, I have to walk by at least one or two open doors before I find one that isn't already being worked on. Every time people see me, there's that pang of Oh, poor Denise.
Finally, I half jog until I see Max, sitting slouched against the wall by an open storage closet, as if waiting for one of us to summon him. As I approach, he sits up straighter and shakes off a yawn. "Look what I found." He roots around for something, then holds up a big plastic container. "Cleaning supplies!"
I've never heard anyone sound so cheerful about cleaning supplies. "I'm going to check out another part of the airport. OK?"
"We might need the chemicals," he clarifies. "Meet you here in an hour?"
"One hour, by the cleaning supply closet."
"Do you want to swap bags until then?" He stands and lifts his backpack, letting it dangle in his hand. It's too small for the jugs of chemicals he found, and the twins are responsible for carrying the books, so the bag is almost empty. "Mine's lighter."
I glance sideways, where Sanne is prying open the nearest office. She's a head shorter and easily fifteen kilos lighter than I am.
"Don't even dare," she says, though she practically disappears under her backpack, like she's carrying a kid for a piggyback ride.
Max shrugs. "I've stopped asking."
My face feels hot as we swap bags. "Thanks."
"And, uh, I don't know if vouching for you will actually make a difference, but I'll try." He eyes me guiltily as he steps closer, as though he needs permission. Glass shards on the ground reflect sparks of light onto his face from below.
I'm not sure why I think he might kiss me—I've been nothing but unapproachable and awkward—but there's a reason he stands so close all of a sudden. There's less than half a meter between us. I hear his breath even through the noise of Sanne turning over the nearest office.
I've never kissed anyone. I'm nailed to the floor, wondering what I'll do if he does lean in. Don't freak out, I tell myself, and, He's not a classmate, he's safe, just calm down, you're sixteen, this is normal, and, Do I even want this? Shit, I don't even know if I want this, I can't think about this right now, I should—
Sanne calls out for Max's help. If there was a moment, it's gone.
"I'm gonna …" I force a one-second smile. Then I scramble away until Max is out of my sight and I can't even hear the others. I break through a door that takes me into a different hallway, then up a level and another one, with a bunch of knocked-over chairs. My flashlight creeps over the floor, illuminating dirt and glass and leaves, until it drops into black nothing. A moment later, the wind gusting inside almost knocks me off my feet.
Stay away from where the windows used to be, I note. Glass crunches dangerously under my soles. I try not to think about what just did or didn't happen with Max. Nerdy white boys don't usually hit on me. I know what to expect from the boys at the festivals and the boys from school—and what they expect from me—but I can't slot Max into either category. I don't know how he sees me.
I edge my way through the rubble, here, there, until I reach a counter to climb over. Even behind the counter, the wind wakes shivers under my skin. Maybe the dust and dirt blocking the sun are already starting to lower the temperature. Or maybe it's just January 31 and freezing cold. I crouch and jam the crowbar into cabinets with more force than is needed.
At least I'm not blinded by other people's flashlights every few minutes. It's quieter, too: it's three minutes before I hear any sound other than splintering wood, the ache of metal on metal, or the sloshing of water outside. Rushed steps. Displaced rubble. A voice, panting. I stand promptly upright. Over a dozen meters away, a light beam is bouncing on the floor, highlighting rubble for half seconds, swinging away uncontrolled, then back to the floor. The light-dark-light-dark is enough to give me a headache. I point my own flashlight at the runner. Only when he's close do I recognize him—the bearded guy who tried to pull me out of the car last night. He has a smudge on his cheek. It might be a smear of dirt or a trick of the light—or a bruise from where I hit him.
"Out!" he screams. "Get out of here!" He doesn't stop running. A hand held telescope hangs from a strap around his shoulder, thuds against his coat.
"What do you—"
"The fire went out! It's coming!" His voice skips. "Get to the ship!"
"But I—"
He passes me, doesn't even slow down, doesn't even look funny at how I'm brandishing a crowbar and flashlight like weapons.
Then, right as I think I'll be left here, clueless, he shouts a single word that makes me go ice-cold.
"Tsunami!"