Tide

Chapter 4

Two days.

It had been two full days of dread, worry, and uncertainty.

The wave had swept everything away. There was nothing left. The wave had chewed up everything and spit it out, dead and broken. People walked around, screaming and crying, yelling the names of the people they were searching for. They wandered around aimlessly, kicking and lifting the wreckage in search for things. People carried bodies that had been beat-up and swollen and absorbed with water. There were rows - rows of corpses that had been hidden behind white sheets, surrounded by people lifting them and taking glances to see if they could recognize them. 

I felt sick.

I was led into an area where I found myself surrounded by other teenagers and children.

Orphans. All of us.

I sat down, burying my face into my hands and releasing deep breaths, trying to convince myself that everything was going to be okay - that I was overreacting, and that the situation wasn't that bad. I'd find my family - I'd find them and we'd take a flight back home, with smiles stretched across our faces as we'd stay close together, happy that we'd been reunited. Then, we'd get back, and we'd tell everyone we knew about the danger we had faced.

We'd be survivors. All of us.

It was going to be okay. Everything was going to be fine.

"Hello," said a voice with a thick accent, though I couldn't quite pin point where it was from.

I didn't bother giving him eye-contact. Instead, I stared blankly at the ground, pretending I hadn't heard him.

"Hello," he said again.

My eyes stung. I blinked and bit the inside of my lip, looking down at my hands. I didn't reply. I couldn't. I was in no mood to start a conversation with anyone. I just wanted to sit by myself, processing everything that had happened. This was no place to be making friends. I just wanted to find my family.

"Am I talking to myself?" he asked.

Finally, I looked over my shoulder.

A grin split across his face, eyes crinkling and dimples forming into his cheeks. A long, stitched up gash ran across his cheek, along with a few large bruises that were a multitude of hues. The wave had injured him badly, yet still, he managed a smile.

"What's your name?" he said, pulling out the chair next to me and sitting down.

All I did was glare at him. Go away, I thought.

"You okay?" he asked.

"No."

Pause. Silence.

"Where are you from?" he asked.

"Canada." I muttered.

"Where in Canada?"

I folded my arms, leaning back in my chair and looking away from him. "Montreal."

"Oh, cool."

I shrugged, staring down at the ground and avoiding eye-contact. I didn't want to think about home. I didn't want to talk about it, either. It only made me think more about my family, and it made me anxious. Home was where I wanted to be. I wanted to be at home, sitting in a warm room with my parents, younger brother, and perhaps my best friend, talking and laughing and maybe watching a movie. Home was where I was safe and sheltered. Home was where I was comfortable and happy. I didn't want to talk about home. So, I asked him questions instead.

"Where are you from?" I said.

He grinned, "Guess."

"Australia?"

"Nope."

"South Africa?"

"Come on, really?" he laughed. "Guess again."

"England."

"Bingo, ever been?"

"No."

"You should go one day," he said.

"Alright," I muttered. He kept smiling. I didn't understand why. How could he be so okay after what had happened? Maybe his family isn't missing, I thought. He doesn't understand.

"How old are you?" he asked.

"Fifteen, going to be sixteen in three days."

"Well first of all, happy early birthday," he said. "And I just turned sixteen. A couple weeks ago, actually."

"Well then, happy belated."

He glanced at my name tag. "Ava," he read. He extended his hand. I shook it. "It's nice to meet you, Ava. I'm Isaac."