The raft made a squeaking sound. It was constantly making that sound, and it was driving me crazy. It had been since the first day, thirty-seven days prior. Every movement, every thought, punctuated by that irritating peep. I kicked it. It squeaked.

The first day I was sure I would be rescued right away. The ship’s course had been known; surely someone would miss us and come looking. I ate a whole bag of rations that day, and a whole bottle of water. A day later I was cursing myself for not saving those. At least the rain showers were keeping me hydrated, and my make-shift tent was keeping me cool. My stomach had finally stopped hurting.

I sat up, and only then saw a boat coming toward me. A lone man was working the sails, and he brought the craft skillfully to my side. He hoisted me up into his boat, and simply handed me a cold, clean glass of water. Then he handed me a plate with a hot, greasy bacon cheeseburger and fresh cut french fries.

“Take me home,” I said. But I didn’t know where home was.