Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
The Gulf water feels warm on my toes but just cool enough that I can already feel relief from the Florida sun.
Gah, that feels good.
I generally prefer the pool over the ocean—since one has sharks and the other doesn’t—but there’s just something about the clear waters of the Gulf that make me feel okay to wade in the water. With the caveat of not going any deeper than my knees, of course.
When I can see my feet, I’m good. When I can’t see my feet, fuhgeddaboudit.
I stare out toward the horizon, purposefully away from the muscly paddleboarder, and walk deeper into the water.
And I just let my mind be still. I’m not thinking about lesson plans or laundry or my crazy parents or bills. I’m just…being.
I move back and forth with the flow of the water, and even to the left and right as the pull of the waves heading back out to the horizon sucks at my feet.
The toes of my left foot tap something sharp, and I startle, quickly adjusting all my weight to my right—and stepping directly onto something that feels like an honest-to-goodness knife.
The pain resonates like a real mothereffer, and a sharp screech involuntarily barrels out of my lungs. “Ayyeeeowww!” I groan and hastily fall back onto my butt into the wet, wave-swallowed sand behind me.
What was that?
I pull both my feet toward me in a cannonball tuck, leaving a trail of blood between my position now and the place where my right foot used to be.
Oh my God. The mere sight of it makes my stomach churn with nausea. Is there a gang of tiny Vikings in the water tasked with keeping pool girls like me relegated to the sand? Or am I just the unluckiest lady in the land?
Ugh. I hate the sight of blood, even and especially my own.
Immediately, I shut my eyes and try to breathe past the urge to vomit. Just calm down. It’s okay. Probably just a little scratch.
I open my eyes again slowly, the tight skin of my slightly sunburned face pulling with the effort to force myself into the movement.
“Ah, no,” I whisper to myself as the blood continues to pour out of my foot at a troubling pace.
Jerking my gaze away from the crimson wave and focusing instead on trying to find the culprit of this egregious act, I peer through the clear water intently. I expect to find a miniature gang of bikers or an all-out war between the Ocean Crips and Bloods, but the only thing I find is seashells.
I mean, seriously? A seashell did this? I can’t even tell some cool story about how I survived this season’s Sons of Anarchy: Ocean Edition?
Awkwardly, I try to lift my body to move myself entirely out of the water and get back to the stable haven of the dry white sand, but as I mentioned before, my fitness levels leave something to be desired. Without the use of my right foot, I end up looking like some kind of beached whale, scooting on her belly toward land.
I make it there, eventually, but the situation at hand doesn’t improve like I’d hoped it would.
There’s still a lot of blood coming from the arch of my right foot, and I’m still at a loss for how to stop it.
Katy Dayton, the teacher in me scolds. This is not good.
Mack
Last time I saw Katy, she had her head turned up to the sun with the easy rock of Gulf waves swirling at her shins. Now, she’s on her belly, half crawling, half scooting herself across the sand while small waves crash over her body.
Since only about three minutes have passed between the two—the time it took me to paddle around a cross-board current and reposition myself—I’d say it’s a hell of a transition.
What is she doing?
I pause paddling and squint to try to see her better, and the first thing I notice is a dark liquid on both of her legs and in the surrounding sand.
Wait…is that blood?
Without wasting any more time since I’m pretty far away from the beach, I turn in her direction and paddle as hard as I can, still keeping a close eye on her while I do it without submarining myself and my board.
When she throws her head back, her breath escalating so hard that her chest actually heaves, a pit opens up in my stomach. Something is wrong. Really wrong.
Without hesitation, I push myself even harder, slicing my paddle through the water with firm strokes as I move back toward the beach. The muscles in my biceps and shoulders burn, but I ignore all their complaints and focus on getting to Katy as quick as I can.
The closer I get, the more I can make out her face and the more alarmed I feel. Instead of rosy, her skin is pale and ashen, and her blue eyes are wide with fear. Adrenaline dumps itself into my veins, and I find myself paddling even harder.