Weeks bled into months. The Wanderer cut through the Pacific, a solitary speck on a healing ocean. The seasons had lost their meaning. The climate was stabilizing, but the transition was violent. Storms erupted without warning. Waves rose like mountains. But the sea never threatened them. When the waves crested, they parted. When the wind howled, it pushed them forward.
Ezra stood at the bow. The cold was biting now. His beard was frosted. His coat was layered with ice. He didn't feel it. Not really. The cold was a presence. A companion. It reminded him of her. Mara was in the chill. In the mist. In the salt spray that froze on his eyelashes.
Tomas was at the helm. He had grown leaner. Harder. His eyes were constantly scanning the horizon. He didn't sleep much. Neither did Ezra. Sleep br
