Ticktock

"There's not a lot of time," Hua grunted.

"There never is," Prim responded as she hauled on the rope, lean muscles rippling under a dirty tank-top.

"This sort of thing ever work?" Hua's olive countenance had been battered by wind and rain and sun and salt, and was now as close to leather as human skin could get. And that leather, to Prim's eye, looked worried.

"Not really, no. But what other choice do we have?"

Hua shrugged. "I don't suppose we can just go back to the bar?"

"Hey," Prim said as she turned to eye him, "you do what you want. You wanna go back to the bar, do it. But I'm not gonna just sit there in a glass cage slinging drinks and watching the world wind down and die."

"And this is somehow a better idea?" Hua snorted a derisive laugh.

Prim looked back at the battered trimaran. Looked down the duneslope to the line where the wine-dark sea caressed and flogged the shore. Looked back at Hua. "No," she sighed. And her face hardened. "But it is necessary. Somebody has to do it, and like it or not, that person is me."

Her calloused hands gripped the rope and began to pull.