“Is it broken?” Sandra asked. She had come up behind him silently, watching him with other words in mind than what she spoke.
“They’re jamming us. They’re drowning out the distress call.”
“Someone would have heard it already,” she suggested.
“Yes,” he said stiffly. “Yes, they might’ve.”
"You are not a coward, Justin,” Sandra said. “It was despicable of me to say so. Everyone who lives on the sea is grateful for lifesavers like you. You are very courageous, and I am sorry for thinking otherwise.”
Agnarsson unslung the rifle and flopped backwards into the chair. He looked over his shoulder at Sandra; she looked absurd in the bulky body armor, cuddling the shotgun.
Sandra walked over beside him. “What now? Do we just wait?”
Agnarsson cocked his head. “What else is there?”
“You’re from North America, I think,” she suddenly said.
He answered slowly, as if he had to work to stir up the memory. “Cascadia. I was born in a place called Cowichan, on Vancouver Island.”
“Did you like it?”
He nodded. “Very much.”
“Of course you would. North America is free,” she mused. “You can go anywhere. And you can say what you want, and buy and sell what you want. You can make a living without anyone’s permission.”