Catherine beat her hand against the porch door, trying not to sound frantic. Inside, a sleepy-looking couple sat on an impossibly white couch. Catherine’s hands had mud on them, her hair was dirty. Wake up! Wake up! She wanted to cry. Don’t scare them. She beat her hand against the door again. What would she say if they came? The man came smiling as if he thought she were playing some kind of joke. Help, call someone. We’re stuck down on the bar. The tide’s coming up.
“My Margie’s in the truck,” she said, gesturing over her shoulder.
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