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IT TOOK FIVEminutes just to get the mop across the room, shuffling the thing with his knees and feet, knocking it against the walls, the shower cubicle, his sleeping wife. Another hour to get the handle through the screw loop over and over, turning the screw just a quarter-inch at a time. He sat triumphantly in the middle of the tiny room, exhausted, looking at the porthole propped open with the mop, the glorious blue sky outside. His face had swollen with pressure around the duct tape gag, sweat pouring down his neck. He tried to rouse Jenny. If he could get her to wake, try to slip her smaller gag off by rubbing her face against the frame of the shower, shout for help out the porthole. She woke briefly, blinked at him with uncomprehending, bloodshot eyes. No. It was up to Ken to save them both.

The big man stood, steeled himself, and climbed up onto the toilet seat. He looked outside and saw no one. Never mind. There might be people only yards away, out of view. He got down and kicked the second shelf of the cupboard down. Jenny’s bathroom products scattered everywhere. Perfume bottles shattered. Shampoo and moisturizer and toner, all manner of women’s things. Ken grabbed a shampoo bottle awkwardly by the neck between his big and second toes and hopped over to the toilet, almost losing his balance and falling by the shower. He climbed up, and with an agonizing stretch of groin and hip and thigh muscles he didn’t know he still possessed, he leaned against the shower, raised one leg, and slid the shampoo bottle through the porthole.

He heard the gentle splash. Looked outside and saw no one. Ken hopped down, shuffled to the pile of toiletries, and grabbed another bottle with his toes. He had to work as fast as he could. He wanted a steady stream of floating debris, more than the usual marina junk. Someone would spot his breadcrumb trail. Someone would rescue them before Hope got back from wherever she was.

It was their only chance of survival.