The ferry clock hangs askew. Frozen at one minute thirty seconds past five o’clock. Lora glares. Wills the black minute hand backward. If she just had the time to live over …
The thin red hand clicked past the twelve.
Lora turned and leaned over the rail. She inhaled the ocean’s frigid breath to escape the sour odors wafting from the man standing beside her.
He rested his briefcase on the rail. Mopped his sweat-drenched forehead. The briefcase slipped from his trembling, damp hand.
Before it tumbled into the waves, Lora caught it. His perspiration slimed her wrist as she returned the case to him. Putrid breath flowed along over his jabbering. Some foreign language. He clutched the case to his chest. Bowed. Reached, as if to touch her.
Lora shook her head. Backed away. Hustled to the restroom. Slammed the door. Shoved her wrist under the faucet.
Lights went dark. Floor capsized. Crashes. Shattering. She skidded. Squeals of metal. Hit the wall. Screams. Bawls, and barely human moaning. Lora grabbed the door handle. Forced herself to open it. Just outside the door, a blood soaked object lay on the deck. A stranded toddler shoe.
It is one minute thirty seconds past five o’clock. The thin red hand hangs still. Lora urges it. Compels them all. To move. But chaos glares back. Time halts.
In a matter of ninety seconds.