First Light

There are three reasons I do not like being trapped.

One: I like my coffee at sixty-eight degrees, and the galley boiler is temperamental in January. Two: I like my shifts to have an end. Three: I like to know where the people I love are, and Elliot had made that impossible for six years.

The ferry groaned, a low, metallic complaint that vibrated through the soles of my sensible shoes. I checked the thermostat on the espresso machine. Sixty-seven. Close enough. Outside the porthole, the dark water was already thickening into slush, the archipelago closing in like a fist. The captain had announced the ice blockage ten minutes ago. We were stuck. Until first light. Until the icebreaker arrived. Until the sea decided to let us pass.