Em opens a second bottle of wine as I turn down the heater and crack open a deck hatch. The cabin has grown stuffy while we were washing, and I hate trying to sleep in a room that's too hot. It's easier to make a hot water bottle than it is to try to get a breeze through the forecabin of Indigo. I shoot Em a look, watching her as she pours our wine. Her damp, dark hair falls in tangled strands, leaving wet trails on her short-sleeved top. She and I are both barefoot; Indigo's cabin sole is a wood composite laminate which insulates well enough that one seldom needs slippers, even in the dead of winter.
"Here," Em says, holding out a glass for me. I accept it and take a sip of wine before I slide in again next to Em at the saloon table. I lean back into the corner formed by the fore cabin's
