On the open sea, Sam swam with the current. It was his only option. In a world where your strength is insignificant against the forces around you, swimming against the current hurts only one person: you.
He swam with the wind at his back, cresting the waves and flowing into the troughs, up and down, over and over again.
When he was too tired to swim, he rolled onto his back and caught his breath.
By the time the sun was midway in the sky—at noon—he was exhausted. He would have given a year of his life for a drink of cold water.
Around him was only hot water, filled with salt, which would only drag him closer to death with every gulp, no matter how good it made him feel.
He floated.
And he swam.
He repeated the exercise, chasing the sun, never seeing land.
On one of his breaks, staring up at the burning star that he felt charring his face, a memory gripped him, of the last time his face had been so red.
He sat in a conference room. Hiro was across from him. Constance beside him. Nora diagonal across the way. Elliott stood at the head of the table, a projector shining on half his face and onto the wall, his slide deck progressing as he spoke.
Daniele sat at the other end of the table, and when Elliott’s presentation was done, she sat back in her chair and listened as a partner at her venture capital firm peppered the scientists with questions. He wanted to hear from all the scientists—he wanted to know that they were committed to this new venture.
One by one, they declared their confidence in the proposed technology that would be called Absolom. When it came to Sam, he glanced at Elliott. In that moment, he saw himself in his old friend, the version of himself that had been busted in that dorm room. He saw a friend who needed help—help to save his son. And Sam did what Elliott had done for him: he lied.
“Yes. There’s a lot of work to do. But what we’re talking about here is possible. With the right funding.” He stared at Elliott. “And enough time.”
Because that’s what all of them needed: time and money to save their families and themselves.
Sam had felt his face turn red. He wondered if it was a giveaway—if the venture capitalists in the room knew it was a sham, if they had a sixth sense about lying scientists desperate for funding.
They didn’t seem to.
The meeting ended soon after, and when the others had filed out of the room, Sam lingered behind. Daniele had sat there, at the head of the table, as if she were waiting for him.
His voice was thick and scratchy when he spoke. “Thank you for making time for us.”
“It was time well spent.”
Sam swallowed. “I just wanted to say…” His mind grasped for the right words—the words that would make him feel better, more like the person he knew he was. Less like what he was becoming.
“I wanted to say that while this…”—he motioned to the projector mounted on the ceiling—“idea is promising, it’s still risky.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“It may not work.”
“It will. In time.”
“I just wanted you to be aware of the risk.”
“Managing risk is our business, Dr. Anderson. We’re not afraid to be far from the shore without a paddle.”
*
Under the Triassic sun, Sam could feel his face and his hands starting to blister. His mouth felt like it was filled with sawdust.
The rule of thumb was that death would come after three days without water. Sam wondered if that accounted for the perspiration from his physical exertion and the heat. Surely that would reduce his survival time. How long did he have out here in these conditions? Another day? Less? Would tonight be his last?
One thing was certain: sunburn could be deadly too. If his skin peeled and blistered, and he began bleeding in the water, it would bring predators. He’d be like floating chum in the ocean.
He reached under the thick sweater and ripped his undershirt into strips that he draped over his face. That would provide some protection from the sun, and he could still breathe through the thin white material and see the distorted glow of the sun. Under the shroud, the waves were like a carnival ride, up and down, a rhythmic rocking that finally coaxed him to sleep.
*
Sam awoke to the burn of saltwater in his mouth, pushing down his throat like a snake slithering inside of him.
He coughed, but the wet strips of cloth covering his face repelled the water back into his mouth.
He ripped the shirt pieces from his face and spun and pumped his arms and legs, coughing as another wave slammed into him.
He closed his eyes and mouth and waited while the wave crested and passed.
When he had emptied his mouth and caught his breath, Sam opened his eyes and realized the sea was no longer an expanse of glass with gentle ridges. It was choppy and dimpled, the falling rain punching a pattern of holes all around him.
Rain.
He threw his head back and opened his mouth, his tongue reaching out, lapping up every drop. His arms and legs and the buoyant garments kept him out of the water as he closed his eyes again and drank from the sky.
The drops of rain collected in his mouth like grains of sand through an hourglass, slow at first, then stacking atop each other until Sam took a gulp, and in it, he tasted hope. What happened next brought even more.
He opened his eyes again and caught sight of the sun. It was low in the sky, threatening to escape beyond the horizon. At that line between light and dark, he saw salvation: a tiny glimpse of land, small and looming.
Pangea.
Waiting for him.