"We’ll have to motor," Mitchell said. "This breeze is straight out of the Canal."

Andy wrapped the blanket around Mitchell’s shoulders and started the vents. "If we do five knots we can make that little bay on the other end of the Canal before the tide changes."

Mitchell raised an eyebrow. "I don’t know if you’ve missed this but it’s night. We’ll start at three knots and hope to hell we can see something."

The engine ripped across the silence. Andy throttled the sloop then climbed on deck and dropped the sails. He was wearing a tee shirt. Mitchell was freezing, struggling against contractions in his biceps. He leaned inboard and pushed the tiller away to turn the sloop toward the flashing green and red lights at the Canal entrance. The blanket slid from his shoulders. This would get worse he knew, but his adrenaline was at flash-flood, he had to keep going. Breeze chilled his neck inside the jacket collar. Past the entrance lights the Canal was a smuggler’s dream. "Without moonlight I wouldn’t try this," he said, and he that knew he would.

Andy stood in the hatch opening watching the forest shadows to port. Factory lights pulsed above the trees. Mitchell searched the black waterway ahead with his left arm pressed hard across his chest in the hope of feeling some warmth under his jacket. Spasms roped across his chest. His lower back suddenly arched, twisting his hips and turning his shoulders. The blanket fell behind the helmchair as the sloop veered. Andy spun around as Mitchell shoved the tiller inboard.

"Do you need help?" Andy tried to see him in the darkness.

Mitchell’s left arm shook violently. "Hook my hand under the armrest."

"There’s a bridge close by."

"Lend a hand," Mitchell growled, angry at the loss of his arm.

Andy took a backward step then turned quickly and forced Mitchell’s forearm under the lashings to the helmchair. "What’s wrong?"

"The cold is inside me."

Mitchell knew how bad this would get. Andy searched ahead for the bridge. He looked back at Mitchell, then ahead and back again.

"Take it easy," Mitchell said. "I’ll make it."

Andy hurried to wrap the blanket around Mitchell’s shoulders.

"Forget it," Mitchell said and watched a wide beam of dull yellow light above the trees to starboard. "There’s the bridge."

A car raced across the arch over the river. What’s the hurry? Mitchell wondered. Or maybe they’re expected. What would that be like?

"Can you see?" Andy’s voice was compact.

Mitchell focused ahead until the bridge pilings appeared purple and gold in the moon shadows. "I see them."

They motored under the bridge while Mitchell fought to keep his arm at the tiller from folding. His left arm was numb. "Where’s the next bridge?"

"A couple miles ahead. First a highway bridge then a railroad bridge."

Breathe deep. Slow and deep he told himself. Get through this. Concentrating on his solar plexis he inhaled through his slightly parted lips, breaths that struck his perineum then filled his belly and then his lungs, expanding his chest. He held each breath until he felt it rise into his shoulders then exhaled silently through his nostrils, emptying his belly then his chest. But he was prisoner to the cold. His hips jerked forward and the tiller collapsed his arm as his knees flew up. His right foot stomped down hard on the cockpit sole.