Prologue:

The father sat on the boat’s only seat, his broad shoulders bent to the task of rowing. The girl fixed her eyes on the back of his red plaid shirt as he reached and pulled, reached and pulled.

My daddy.

She wore his denim jacket beneath her plastic poncho and life jacket, and she wriggled so that she could feel the fabric of the sleeves, as if his arms were holding her, keeping her safe. So long as he was there, she was not alone. Not a drift child.

Whenever the zodiac rocked wildly in the trough of the giant grey waves, she gripped the ropes fastened to the starboard pontoon and braced the heels of her runners against a plastic floorboard. The bow leapt high in the air and smashed back into the trough, pitching the girl against her two siblings. She pulled herself free, leaving them clinging to each other and the blanket they shared.

“Those two have each other,” her aunt had once told a neighbour, “but this one is alone. A drift child.”

A gust of wind blew rain into the girl’s face. I can’t see! I can’t see! She blinked and blinked, but every time she raised her head, her face was drowned anew. She couldn’t breathe. I can’t see! Bending forward, she swiped her face against the plastic covering her knee, then, looking up, squinted until she found the red plaid of his back again. Strong. Purposeful. Working the oars.

My daddy! The words screamed inside her head.