Over time, the crew had settled into a routine. Mimi and Rede were usually the first to wake up, just as they had today. Inna usually followed, and he would shake Thanh awake despite her grumbling; she in turn would pester Mara until she physically got out of bed. Years of early morning carpools to race sites had taught them that, left unattended, Mara would sleep through anything short of a SWAT raid.

Rede watched the scene unfold as usual. Inna apparently decided to leave the sleeping area once Thanh started her ritualistic chanting (“Wake up! Wake up! I’m going to light you on fire!”). He shuffled toward Rede and Mimi, shaggy ginger bedhead framing the pillow lines on his cheek. Rede knew he wouldn’t bother to take care of either; Inna always looked like he’d just rolled out of bed and kept his head too high in the clouds to care. In high school, he used to arrive fifteen minutes late to first period with a mug of tea in his hand, all mismatched clothes and united shoelaces and sheepish grins that wore teachers down. He didn’t mean to do it, but Inna carried himself with an air of lovable messiness that, while often inconvenient, made it impossible to get mad at him.

“Welcome to the land of the waking,” Rede said.

Inna grunted. “What’s for breakfast?”

“Good morning to you, too,” Mimi said pointedly.

“Sorry. Morning.” Inna rubbed the grit from his eyes.

“I think we have some instant oatmeal left over from last week.” Rede gestured vaguely to the cluster of furniture on the other side of the Barn where the crew habitually ate. It was made up of several lockboxes, six foldout camping chairs, and a coffee table whose missing leg had been replaced by a stack of cans. Besides the sleeping area, it was the only real organized space in the building.

Inna crossed the thirty feet worth of distance between the canoe and the eating nook, knelt beside one of the boxes, and fumbled at the lock. “I can’t ever remember the combination,” he complained.

“Eight zero one,” Mimi supplied. Her robotic tone betrayed the resignation with which she accepted Inna’s forgetfulness.

Inna opened the lock box and rifled around inside. “We do have oatmeal, but I feel like it’s too much work to make a fire for breakfast.”

“Actually, I’m with him on this one,” Mimi muttered to Rede.

Rede rolled her eyes. “Fine. What else?”

“Peanut butter.” Inna held up a half empty jar.

“Works for me.” Rede shrugged.

“Are we doing peanut butter breakfast again?” said Thanh.

Rede and Mimi both started. Neither of them had noticed Thanh approach the stern of the canoe. Mara trailed like a sleepy shadow in her wake.

They both shook off their surprise. “What’s wrong with peanut butter breakfast?” Mimi asked.

“Nothing’s wrong, I just wanted to know if I should be washing off the dishes or not.” Thanh shrugged. The motion pushed her off-the-shoulder T-shirt even further down, exposing her sports bra tan. She used to slather herself in sunscreen with near-religious fervor, interrupting late night gossip sessions to rub her face and neck with lightening cream. Her parents told her that dark skin was ugly, she once said; they didn’t like that she spent so much time outdoors because the sun would steal her beauty. “Am I ugly, then?” Mara had asked, pointing to her own arm. Thanh had shaken her head vigorously. Inna had held her while she cried. That night, the lightening cream stayed in Thanh’s bag — and later, in the garbage, where it belonged. Thanh had cut her hair short, started wearing her tan lines like warpaint.

“No dishes, but yes silverware.” Inna held up a clutch of spoons. “Unless you want to eat it out of your hands like a monkey, I guess. Go full feral.”

“I’m on board for full feral,” Thanh said. She shuffled over to Inna and sat down heavily on the floor. “Butter me.”

Rede chose not to watch Inna and Thanh scoop peanut butter out of the jar with their hands, turning her attention instead to Mara and Mimi’s discussion of logistics for the day.

The two of them made quite the pair. Mara, despite being rail-thin and of average height, managed to dwarf entire crowds with her presence. Before the quake, Mara had owned an impressive collection of customized leather jackets and every style of jungle boots that the army surplus store carried. Even now, her Afro remained cobalt blue — apparently, she’d used some new kind of long-lasting dye that her loaded ass parents had ordered from Korea — and she’d kept her septum ring despite the attention that any kind of jewelry drew nowadays. Next to her, Mimi appeared even tinier and quieter than usual. When they all first met at the outrigger recruitment meeting during freshman year, Rede had assumed Mimi was incredibly insecure. Later, of course, she realized she couldn’t be further from the truth: Mimi knew exactly who she was and what she wanted to do. She just preferred to stay on the sidelines, observing and planning, then act on her own time. Still, she did fit nearly every aspect of the ‘nerdy outcast’ archetype. Plenty of people throughout high school had rejected her out of hand; during their first year of college, which had been cut short by the quake, Rede had watched her go through the same excruciating series of rejections. Watching her and Mara interact ignited something warm inside of Rede.

“…will leave a stack of tomato cans on the porch,” Mimi was saying. “That’s how we’ll know it’s the right house. The client said it’s mostly flooded in that area so it might be a little shallow.”

“But doable,” Mara said. Mimi nodded an affirmative.

“Maybe while we’re there, we can ask if they know anybody who’s done outrigger,” Rede cut in.

Mara pursed her lips. “I guess it’s worth a try.”

They fell silent for a moment too long. No one wanted to put the group’s worries into words: how unlikely it was to find an experienced paddler who was willing to give up everything to ferry stuff through dangerous waters with a group of kids who weren’t even drinking age. They could teach someone, but learning took time and effort, and they didn’t have the time to spare if they wanted to earn enough food for all six people to eat.

Five, Rede reminded herself. There were five of them now. How many months had it been? She shouldn’t have to make these corrections anymore.

“Well, this should be good practice for me.” Mara nodded at the steers blade lying on top of the canoe’s last bench. “Last time we visited that area, I saw a lot of buried debris.”

“You’ll do great,” Mimi said. She laid a bracing hand on Mara’s arm. “Seriously, we’re all so impressed.”

“Thanks.” Mara tried to hide her flush of pride. Not that she didn’t deserve to show off — Lacey had been the team’s official steers all through high school, and although Mara had been the backup, she didn’t have much real experience. Over the past few months, she’d more or less had to teach herself.

“Hey guys!” Thanh waved a peanut butter-covered hand. “I just had a really good idea!”

Rede frowned. “Explain?”

Inna buried his face in his hands.

Heedlessly, Thanh continued: “If you mix wine and peanut butter, it’s basically just adult PB&J.” She grinned. “I’m so fucking smart.”

“Where are we supposed to get wine?” Mara asked.

Rede’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s seriously your only issue with what she just said?”

“Mara could ask the grocery guy,” said Thanh.

“Absolutely not!” Inna shook his head so hard he might break his neck.

“I mean, we’re already bribing him to steal from a billionaire’s private food shipments,” Mara pointed out. “I don’t think asking him to get alcohol would make the situation much sketchier than it already is.”

“I can’t believe we’re having this conversation,” Rede muttered.

“What time is it?” Inna asked, clearly desperate to change the subject.

Rede glanced at the clock nailed to the top of the dresser. “Eight fifteen.”

Inna scrambled to his feet. “Guys, we’ve gotta leave in like ten minutes.”

“Calm yourself, dude,” Thanh said. “We’re pretty much ready anyway.”

“We haven’t eaten,” Mimi said.

“Then do it fast.” Thanh shook the peanut butter jar in their direction.

Rede didn’t feel particularly hungry, so she focused on the rest of herself instead. Unlike most other people, she had refused to cut her hair after the quake, which meant she had to tie it back whenever she paddled. The task seemed easier than it was: her hair grew fine and soft, slipping out of every style in a matter of hours. Lacey used to say it reminded her of corn silk.

Rede pushed that thought to the back of her mind, forced it into the little corner where Lacey lived now, and put all her energy into braiding her hair. She was already dressed to paddle: sports bra, baggy T-shirt, workout leggings, bare feet. Preparedness was a necessity these days. Normally, she would take off Lacey’s jacket, but some sentimental whisper in the back of her mind persuaded her otherwise.

Mimi tapped Rede’s sleeve. “That’ll get hot,” she said. Her expression seemed just a little too knowing. Rede was half-convinced the girl could read minds.

She shrugged as casually as possible. “Looks like it might rain. I don’t want to have to change shirts.”

Mimi opened her mouth to respond, but Mara cut her off. “Hey guys!” she shouted. “Let’s launch!”

The others hurried to the canoe. Mara had already taken hold of the guide rope tied around the back bench. Mimi went for the corresponding rope at the nose. Inna positioned his hands under the back end of the amma while Rede and Thanh took their spots on the opposite side of the canoe, bracing their hands against the gunnels.

“Launch in three!” Mara shouted. “One…two…three!”

As one, the crew pushed the canoe forward on its runners. They reached the ramp to the river and paused slightly as Mimi tilted the nose onto the padded landing strip that kept the canoe from rubbing against the floor. She stood to the side and held onto the rope, letting it unfurl as the others pushed the canoe into the water. Inna guided the amma, which was smaller than the boat, into the water before letting it go. It landed with a slight groan from the rigging, counterbalancing the canoe’s weight so the narrow craft wouldn’t capsize.

When the canoe was fully in the water, Mimi and Mara guided the non-amma side of the canoe close to the ramp. They held it in place while the others took their seats. As usual, Rede took second, Inna took third, and Thanh took fourth, all one after the other. They had left their paddles under their seats with the mildly superfluous life jackets. Rede grasped hers now, the curve of the shaft settling into her palm with all the ease of a handshake from an old friend. The carbon fiber blade stuck out at an angle — lever, not a spoon, their coach had told them — from the shaft’s base.

Mimi eased carefully into the lead bench. Rope now coiled at her feet, she held onto the ramp so the canoe didn’t float away.

Mara was the last to get in, testing the water with her flat steers blade to gauge the current before giving the command to push off. The team obeyed, feeling the familiar rocking rhythm of the Willamette carry them backward. Unprompted, Rede crew raised her paddle into the start position: top arm extending like a salute, bottom arm grasping the lowest part of the shaft as if she were forming the letter A with her body. The paddlers alternated sides and the lead bench began on the left, which meant Rede would start with her paddle on the right side of the boat. One by one, the others raised their paddles and waited for Mara’s command.

“Take it away,” she called.

Rede buried her blade into the water just like she’d been taught. Her back and core tightened with the strain of pulling it through the water, rotating on her spine to add torque before removing the blade once it reached her knee. She followed Mimi’s pace and silently counted in her head. Inna was calling, since he was sitting in third bench, but she liked to do it anyway.

On the fifteenth stroke, Inna let out a guttural “Hut!” The crew lifted their paddles out of the water and changed sides at lightning speed, re-entering the water as quickly as possible to maintain their pace. Every fifteen strokes, they would switch. That predictable, soothing rhythm had been the sport’s main draw for Rede. No real rush. There was competition, sure, but no real rancor lay behind it. They competed not to win or to rack up points or to revel in self-aggrandizing joy; rather, they did it to enjoy the moment. Other sports had claimed to do that, but over the years, Rede had found that only outrigger truly delivered.

After the quake, Rede had expected to hate paddling. It was a chore now; without it, they would starve. She expected the timeless trance it put her in to give space for memories of her parents’ corny Hanukkah pajamas poking out from beneath the rubble, blood and oil mixing in the water flooding her street, the ghoul-hollow faces of Red Cross workers looking at her but not seeing her, not really. She’d expected things she had pushed deep down to bob to the surface like plastic bottles filled with air.

But there was nothing. Rede thought thoughts, she felt feelings, and they passed her by just as slowly as the riverbank in the corner of her eye. She responded automatically to Inna’s periodic calls, switching sides with practiced grace and relishing the feel of water droplets on her skin. Distantly, some part of her wondered why she had ever been afraid of the river. It was, and she was, and they were, together. Nothing to fear.