If there was only some way for him to signal the boat, Flynn thought, floating on his back.
But there didn't seem to be a need to. It headed straight toward him--and then it stopped.
The Weather Man, normally frigid eyes now alive and curious, helped him onboard, where he flopped on the deck and refused to move. Flynn was wet, cold, and coughing, curled up in the fetal position in an attempt to heat up; the water-repellent coat the Man threw on top of him did little to warm his bones. Or stifle the fire in his arms.
"Did your boat sink?"
"No--n--no," Flynn answered, clutching his head. "How d-did you--?"
"When I saw the storm, saw my prediction fall through, I tried to make another."
And? Flynn thought. He was unable to speak.
The Weather Man shook his head, no doubt reliving the frustration of the moment. "It didn't work. I couldn't see anything. Except you. All I could see was you."
YOU ARE READING
The Line
Science Fiction[FEATURED] Juan Solo comes from the South Side, a world of deserts and heat. Zachary Flynn was born on the North Side, where the sun never shines and the cold bites. Breaking the law on either Side carries the ultimate penalty: banishment to the L...
