The ferry deck was empty except for me. Rain came sideways and the rail was slick under my hands.
The crossing should have taken forty minutes. The captain announced weather would extend it another hour, and everyone groaned, then retreated to the heated cabin.
I stayed because the cold gave me something to feel that wasn't the thing underneath.
In my coat pocket, my fingers kept finding the prescription bottle. My mother's name on the label. Sertraline, 50 milligrams.
She'd handed it to me three weeks ago. Hold onto this for me, she said. I don't want it in the house.
I'd had a layover in Seattle that morning, extended four hours by weather. I spent it in a terminal chair staring at the carpet, finally admitting what I'd been carrying since October.
Not the bottle. The same fog she's lived in my whole life.
I went inside. Sat down. Pulled out my phone and called the number on the back of my insurance card.
Tuesday I have an appointment. The bottle still has her name on it. But mine's coming.