“At nights,” she says, “we were both in our own little worlds, him with his alcohol and me with my barbies.”

The hawser was as taut as a bowstring, and the current so strong she pulled upon her anchor. All around the hull, in the blackness, the rippling current bubbled and chattered like a little mountain stream.

Maybe you can, maybe you can't: you won't know till you try.

“I might have saw something,” I told him. “At least I think I might have saw something. Only I couldn't say what.”