The Tide

They ran.

It wasn't a sprint. It was a desperate, stumbling trudge through sand that grabbed their boots like wet cement. The wind whipped the snow into a frenzy, reducing visibility to zero.

Behind them, flashlights cut through the gloom. The hitmen were on the deck.

* Thwip. Thwip.*

Suppressors. Bullets kicked up sand around their feet.

"Faster!" Dario wheezed. He was lagging. The wound had reopened. Blood was soaking his leg.

They reached the shoreline. The water was surging, icy foam washing over their boots. The noise of the surf drowned out the gunshots.

Dario stumbled. He fell hard, the duffel bag splashing into a tidal pool.

"Dario!" Maya grabbed his collar. "Get up!"

"I can't," he groaned. He rolled over, clutching his stomach. The blood was dark against the white snow. "I can't... legs are gone."

Maya looked back. Three beams of light were descending the dunes. They were closing in.

"Leave me," Dario said. He shoved the duffel bag toward her. "Take it. Take the money. Go north to the inlet. You can hide in the reeds."

Maya looked at the bag. It was heavy. Sopping wet. Two million dollars.

She looked at Dario. He was dying. His face was grey, his eyes unfocused.

"It's yours," he whispered. "I'm sorry, Maya. I just wanted... I wanted to be someone."

Maya reached down. She grabbed the handle of the bag.

The hitmen were fifty yards away. She could see their silhouettes.

She looked at the money. Then she looked at the water.

"I don't want your money," she said.

She dropped the bag. It landed in the surf. A wave crashed over it, dragging it out toward the dark Atlantic.

She grabbed Dario under the arms. "Get up."

"Maya, don't be stupid—"

"Shut up," she grunted, heaving him up. "You don't get to die here. Not on my beach."

She half-carried, half-dragged him into the darkness, away from the money, away from the house. They moved toward the rocky cove further down the point, a place where the shadows were deep and the spray was thick.

Behind them, the hitmen reached the water's edge. They stopped. One of them spotted the duffel bag bobbing in the surf. He shouted. They scrambled for the cash, greedy, distracted.

Maya didn't look back. She kept walking, the weight of the dying man heavy on her shoulder. The cold was numbing her fingers, her toes, her face.

"Where are we going?" Dario whispered, his head lolling against her neck.

"I don't know," Maya said. The wind tore the words from her mouth.

They walked into the mist, two dark shapes against the endless grey. They had no money. They had no car. The storm was swallowing the world whole.

But as they disappeared into the swirling white, Maya didn't feel poor. She felt the bite of the wind, the heat of his blood, and the terrifying, beautiful weight of being alive.

The tide rose, washing away their footprints, leaving the beach pristine and empty, as if no one had ever been there at all.