Two hours. It’s been two fucking hours, and the Coast Guard still isn’t here. None of us have cell service to contact the girls, Jake and Novy fought over the last jerky stick until it fell overboard, and now we’re rationing the last water bottle between six grown men. Our cooler is still half-full of beer, the bottles clinking as they float in the melted ice. If anything, we can use that as drinking water too. I don’t care that our grubby, fishy hands have been digging around in it all day. I am not dying out here.
