Page 152 of The Session

“That makes sense,” Trevor said. “I was going to say that’s a lot of boat for one person to pilot around.”

You should have seen the decoy, Mark thought.

As they walked toward the office, Mark scanned the harbor to make sure there weren’t any Bahamian coast guard boats on the far side or police cars tucked into the bushes.

Inside the store, Mark handed Trevor his credit card. One end of the shop held the harbormaster’s desk, surrounded by clipboards and charts. The other side had racks of fishing lures and shelves stocked with everything from life vests to old paperback books.

If he had to sum up the eclectic interior in two words, it would be “salt life.”

Every so often, the silence broke with radio chatter as boats called out to one another.

Trevor slid Mark’s credit card into a reader on the desk and punched a series of buttons.

Mark held his breath, trying to remember whether, in all the chaos, he’d paid off his credit card bill. Summit had covered the travel and perks, but not the life he’d left behind. Under normal circumstances, he was sure he’d have enough leeway. But expenses had started catching up after he lost his job as a paramedic.

He reminded himself he could always go back to the boat, whisper to Tru to deposit money into his bank account, and use his debit card.

“We’re good,” Trevor said. “I put a $3,000 hold on it. We’ve had people try to leave without paying.”

“No problem. I completely understand,” Mark said, relief washing over him.

“All right, let’s get you filled up. Need anything while we’re here?” Trevor asked, gesturing toward a case of sodas and beer.

“Nah, we’ve got plenty on board,” Mark replied.

Mark realized he’d said “we.” He wasn’t being interrogated by the Gestapo in Berlin during World War II, but it was still a careless slip.

Trevor didn’t seem to notice and headed back out toward the boat.

As they walked back, Mark realized he had no idea where the fuel port was.

Trevor grabbed the nozzle in one hand and started unspooling the hose with the other. Rather than pretend he knew where the fuel port was, Mark checked the bow line and assumed Trevor had it handled.

Mark was nervous about letting him aboard, but there wasn’t much he could do unless he wanted to fumble in the dark for the gas cap.

Trevor stepped onto the side deck, walked to a section Mark hadn’t noticed before, and began unscrewing a cap.

Satisfied that he’d done absolutely nothing to the bow line, Mark walked back to the stern and watched as Trevor started pumping.

After connecting the hose, Trevor stepped back onto the dock, walked to the pump, and turned it on.

“This will take about twenty minutes. I’ll be back to check on it. You sure you don’t want anything? Soda? A beer?”

“I’m good,” Mark replied. “Thanks.”

He stepped aboard and sat in the chair behind the console, keeping his eyes on the harbormaster’s office while checking the time to see how far along the refueling was.

Occasionally, he checked the horizon for inbound boats. Other than the occasional breeze, it was a quiet night. The only sound was the pump chugging away as it refueled the boat.

Fifteen minutes in, Mark saw a shadow at the harbormaster’s office door. Trevor stepped out and walked toward him.

“Looks like we’ve got another hundred and fifty gallons to go,” Mark said as he approached.

“Sounds good. I need you to come sign the bill,” Trevor said.

Mark followed him back down the dock toward the building. Halfway there, Trevor glanced back at him.

Something in the look—maybe uncertainty—made Mark’s nerves spike.