The Final Six (The Final Six #1) - Alexandra Monir Page 0,2

in a matter of seconds if I wanted to. But that’s the problem. I don’t want to.

My thoughts are bleeding together now, playing a strange, jumbled movie just for me. Sleep is coming; I can feel it. And then—

An engine roars. Ripples form in the water overhead.

I know that sound. It’s a—a boat.

I should just keep my eyes closed and let the fog of my drowsiness pull me further toward the brink. But my mind is still half-awake, warning me that the presence of a boat means something is amiss. No vehicles are allowed to cross the water outside of daylight hours, one of the many new rules enforced since La Grande Inondazione. Of course, the coast guard always has the option of sidestepping this rule—if they spot someone in danger.

And just like that, the haze before my eyes disappears. Consciousness returns, the death wish replaced by something else—shame. I know I can’t let this innocent coast guard jump into the deep sea and do battle with the tide just to save me. That can’t be my final act.

I spit the water out of my mouth and hold my breath, wriggling free of the backpack and pushing my body up, up. My limp arms and legs are swinging back to life as I finally listen to my kid sister. Swim.

My head hits the surface. Air—sweet, beautiful air—fills my lungs, and I gasp, clinging to it.

The hum of the motor comes closer, and I rise up, waving my arms.

“I’m here!” I try to shout, though my voice has gone ragged and barely makes a sound. “Don’t jump!”

But as the boat glides into view, my mouth falls open. It’s not a coast guard boat. It’s a sleek catamaran, with painted blue lettering on the side revealing a familiar logo: European Space Agency.

What is ESA doing here, of all places? Why now?

A man and woman stand at the bow of the vessel, wearing matching expressions of fierce concentration as they scan the surroundings. The woman is dressed in the dark blue uniform of the Italian military, the man in a business suit with an ESA shirt beneath the blazer. Thankfully, neither of them seems to notice me.

I didn’t think anything could surprise me anymore, but it turns out I was wrong. Instead of sinking to the bottom of the sea, I am now swimming in the boat’s wake. Whatever ESA is doing here in our wreckage of a city, it must be something big—and I don’t want to miss it.

I keep pace with the boat, my breaststroke getting me through the last stretch of choppy water until we reach the makeshift docks. I can see my dilapidated home now, the Pensione Danieli sign still hanging hopefully from the roof. And then, as the first rays of morning light filter through the sky, the boat turns toward Palazzo Senatorio, our city hall. Waiting on the front stoop that juts above the water is Prime Minister Vincenti with his wife, Francesca, and their daughter, Elena—my sister’s best friend.

I duck back underwater, holding my breath as the boat docks. I can’t let any of them see me. Lord knows how I would answer their questions.

After what feels like an eternity, I splash back up to the surface. The prime minister and his wife have disappeared inside, along with the two from ESA—but Elena is still there, angling a camera in front of the space agency boat. As I lift my head above the water, a flash of light sparks before my eyes. I blink rapidly, watching as Elena does a double take. Shit. I’ve been caught in the photo.

“Leo?” She rushes to the dock’s edge. “What are you doing?”

I could make up a story—I could tell her I just felt like taking a crack-of-dawn swim. But no one would believe it in these treacherous waters, and I’ve never been a good liar anyway. My shame, the step I came this close to taking, will be written all over my face.

“Ciao, Elena,” I call back, trying to make my voice as normal as possible. “It’s . . . a long story. Nothing important.”

She gives me a sideways look, and I know there’s no getting away from her now. I might as well have this inevitable conversation on dry ground.

I swim forward, closing the distance between us, and then grip the bottom of the wooden dock, mustering my strength to pull myself up and over the edge. I land on shaky legs, my soaking clothes forming a puddle