The basin within my boat is lined with my blood; it stains the grooves of the warped metal. A womb to carry me, or an altar where I'm sacrificed, but really both.

As I float downstream, two helicopters converge, heading back up the river. They hover over my little peninsula, the scene of my latest staged death. Lights beam down into the tree cover, searching.

I think they've found the scene I left them. Can only hope my distraction buys time, lets me slip away. The blood, the boat, my gear—I hope it's enough to fool them. Never know.

The current, at least, welcomes me. It carries me toward the gulf, boat bouncing from rocks and roots and tumbling along toward the ocean. A vulture circles overhead, riding drafts in lazy arcs, soaring through the evening sky.

I don't move; only lay, bare back pressed into the rough ridges of the ruined aluminum tub that holds me. The peculiar creases in its base, the same ones I worked so hard to straighten earlier, press into my spine.

Calling it a boat is generous. The misshapen hull rocks wildly to one side or the other any time I shift my weight. To stay afloat, I spread across all corners of the tub and balance carefully.

But, I am moving. The clouds attest to that, thick and gray as they tumble by, promising rain. With the sky blotted, the sunset begins to burn away in gasping shades of pink, green and purple.

Morgan's bag rests beside my head. I lift an arm, muscles aching, and unzip it. I feel around blindly, brushing past money and guns, until I grip something smooth and rectangular.

The smartphone. There are only two buttons to press; I hold each down for a few seconds until the screen comes to life.

One bar of battery, no signal. I toss the phone into the bag, zip it all closed again, and let my arm fall. Whatever good that will do.

I watch my hand, pressed to the side of the boat. The shadow between myself and the hull dissolves slowly, pressed under my body and draining away as the light fails.

What was it Kayla told me? Night is when our shadows talk.

I didn't understand it then, but I might now.

Ghosts and shadows—the private and public person. Well, I am all ghost now, happy to hover over Sean Reilly's dead image.

Feels like liberty.

Night falls. The cold and the dark seem to soothe my cuts, and the bleeding stops. I am weak, though, and light-headed. Not sure I could rise if I wanted. I am spent.

*

Sometime in the middle of the night, the boat begins to rock more fervently. What were once occasional disturbances become a constant, rhythmic pulse.

Head pounding, mouth dry. My hands cling to the rim of the tub on opposite sides; I pull myself upright.

I go all dizzy. I assume my vision is spinning, and yet the world is such flawless dark that I couldn't know. The sense of tossing about in the boat is my only clue the situation has changed. Otherwise, the sounds tell me nothing. The slap of the hull on water, the rush of wind passing my ears—and a ravenous, all-devouring blackness.

Is this death?

My back presses to the boat once more as I collapse. I float through nothing.

One last deconstruction. Destroy Sean Reilly the shadow, then destroy the body, and now the world is stolen from my eyes.

I breathe in. Salted air courses past my lips, into my lungs. Membranes cleave free oxygen, universal fuel that burns in us all, and I exhale. There is always breath.

Don't even need to count them, anymore.