*Isla*

“Where are we going?”

I ask the person who is grasping my hand now, but there’s no answer. It’s not my mother. I know that much. The grip is tight and painful, and Mom would never hold onto my hand so tightly.

In response, I hear a voice that sounds like it’s coming from beneath the waves say, “You have to stay with me, Isla.”

“But why?” I ask. Glancing down, I see that my feet are not on the ground anymore. When I stepped onto the wood of the ...