The Rip
“Yeah, still here. Hold up—I’ve got the mainsail.”
Under the scorched fold, a shape caught her eye—blackened, melted, wrong. A flipper. Her breath stuttered.
“Jo, what are you doing?” Gabe snapped. “Are you even listening?”
“The whirlpool isn’t doing anything,” she said, distracted, reaching.
Tim swept along the keel and stopped dead. Half-buried under scorched cloth and rope sat a bronze shard, heavy with age, edges jagged where something had broken it. “Hey, Jo. I found something.”
Sikat na Kabanata