Hold on, he says—protectively, like he really wants her to. But he's scared. She can tell. He has no idea what he's doing either. What does he even care, anyway? It would be so much easier—for both of them—if she did just the opposite.

We'll make it t'shore. Like hell they will. From where she's sitting, clutching onto that pathetic scrap of old, drenched fabric with a desperation she didn't know she had in her, she can't see shore at all.

"What—..." Another wave laps at them both, stealing her words and threatening to drag her under (she thinks of Shinjuku, and sinking, and numbness, and existence melting away)—only to recede without her. "What—makes you so sure?"