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But it’s 2022.

Iknowit’s June 2022.

Why does this say 2023? Why am I with Kincaid? Why am I calling him Wes? Why is my hair my natural color? Why don’t I remember any of this?

And then, in the back of my head, puzzle pieces start to fall, not enough for me to put them together, but enough to let me know that I’m missing something.

Something terrible.

Suddenly, I hear Kincaid coming down the steps.

“We’ll go extra slow, but I’ve plotted a course for?—”

He stops.

I turn to look at him, shaking my head, my whole world starting to disintegrate. Tears spring to my eyes because I don’t understand.

But you do understand, you do understand.

“What year is it?” I ask him, my words trembling. “Please. Tell me what year it is.”

Kincaid’s face crumbles. He walks over to me slowly and picks up the Polaroid, glancing at it before putting it back into the spot where it was stuck in between the instruments.

“It’s 2025,” he says.

I shake my head, my chin trembling. “No. It can’t be. It’s 2022.”

“Itwas2022,” he says patiently, though his eyes are sad. “It’s now 2025. Three years have passed, Syd.”

“Passed since what? What was that, what is that? Why are we…why don’t I remember?”

He reaches down and unties the rope from around me, the boat shaking as the waves slam into it, the autopilot in control but going slow.

I feel like I’m on autopilot too.

None of this is real.

Nothing is real.

What the hell is happening?

He then disappears into his quarters, leaving me reeling.

Reality seems to slip away, leaving me raw and exposed to the elements.

It’s 2025.

I’ve lost three years of my life.

How?

Why?

When he comes back, he’s holding a shoebox. He places it on the chart table and lifts off the top, gesturing for me to look inside.

I hesitate, the fear so acute that I don’t think I can move.

But then I do. I peer over into the box.