by J. L. Bourne
I love you,
—Kil
***
Fever, sick. Sixty-five miles, fifty-six nautical miles? Diesel still working. Making eight and hlf kts. Autopilot reprogrammd once. Not sure rason. Tough concentrate.
Insnt coffee. Jan’s go pils. Stay up.
Twenty miles inside inclusion zone
A coastal patrol picked up Kil’s distress beacon and moved to intercept his vessel. The boat never responded to radio hail or signal shots. As the sailboat tracked along its Floridian course, Kil’s friend John was first onboard the Solitude; he didn’t hesitate a second before barging into the cabin below. What John saw nearly ripped the heart from his chest. His long-time friend, Kil, tied to the bunk, pale as snow—gone. John noticed Kil’s journal on his chest, one of many he knew of. His friend was dead for certain, and he knew what had to be done. Their mutual friend Doc boarded just after John, and removed his hat out of respect. John pulled his Mark III from his worn leather holster and put it to Kil’s head.
Just before squeezing the trigger, John reached down to brush the grey hair from Kil’s face. Warmth!
***
The mysterious virtual wall is what saved Kil that day, most believe. After checking his electronic autopilot logs and working the equations backwards, Kil determined that someone, or something, made critical alterations to the autopilot system. These alterations saved him precious minutes along his route to the inclusion zone. Maybe there was a glitch, or maybe there was a problem at the LORAN station on the mainland. It didn’t matter—the wall targeted and eliminated the anomaly in his system, allowing his body to recover. Shortly after Kil’s journey, Tara received her new pacemaker leads and was on her own road to recovery.
Kil never lived down his lie, but he cherished every second of rebuke from his beloved wife.