The Stranger in the Lifeboat

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they’d have been here already.
I try to remain positive, my love. I think of you, I think of home, I think of a
meal and a pint and a nice, long sleep. Small things. I try to stay active in the
boat, moving from side to side, stretching the muscles that I can, but the
relentless sun often saps my strength. I never realized how precious shade
could be. I am redder than I have ever been, and my skin is covered in small
boils. Geri had smartly grabbed a backpack before escaping the Galaxy, and
it had a tube of aloe in it, but it is not nearly enough for all of us.
We share tiny dabs on our worst spots. Our only escape is to crawl under
the canopy. But it is stifling with everyone inside, and you cannot sit up
straight. Geri’s backpack also held one of those small, handheld fans, and we
pass it from one to another, creating a miniature breeze. We shut it off
quickly to preserve the batteries.
Fresh water remains our most precious commodity. What we have comes
from the “ditch bag” of the raft, which also contained various emergency
supplies: a bailer for emptying seawater, fishing line, paddles, a flare gun,
things like that.
The drinking water, stored in small cans, is what matters most, and it is
nearly gone now. Twice a day, we have been rationing equal amounts into a
stainless steel cup. We sip it down, then pass the cup on.
Geri makes sure to fill it up for little Alice. This evening, following the
strange wind incident, the child took her portion and crawled along the raft
bottom toward the Lord.
“What’s that weird kid doing now?” Lambert said.
Alice handed her cup to the stranger, and he swallowed the water in a
single gulp. Then he handed it back with a grateful nod. What are we to make
of him, Annabelle? Never mind the mysterious things that have happened
since his arrival. Would God really drink water before a thirsty child?