The Atlantic stretched before them, black and endless under a sky devoid of stars, only the pale glow of the burning coastline fading behind them. Soufiane's hands gripped the boat's tiller with white-knuckled intensity, every muscle taut as he scanned the dark waters for danger. The waves slapped against the hull with cold, relentless force, rocking the small vessel with each swell. Amal and Meriem huddled amid their supplies, shivering as the salt spray soaked their clothes and dampened their hair.
"This is nothing like the calm seas I've read about," Meriem whispered, her voice trembling.
"You'll get used to it," Amal replied, though the tremor in her hands betrayed her own fear as she readjusted the bundles of food and blankets. "Focus on staying low, keeping your balance. One wrong move, and we could lose everything."
Soufiane stayed silent, listening to the wind whipping across the waves, the occasional crash against unseen rocks echoing in the darkness. Every second on the water was a gamble. One misstep, one sudden swell, and the Atlantic would claim them. No one could come to help—not here, not now.
He glanced at the two women. Their faces were pale, their eyes wide with tension, yet determination glimmered in each. Amal's jaw was set, her grip firm on the pipe she had stowed for emergencies. Meriem, small and fragile, clutched her backpack to her chest as though it were a shield. Soufiane swallowed hard, the weight of responsibility pressing down on him. Younes. His son. Seven years old, asleep in the Netherlands, unaware of the chaos unfolding a thousand miles away. Each mile they put between themselves and Morocco brought them closer to the boy—but also further into uncertainty.
Hours dragged on. The rhythmic crash of the waves became hypnotic, the rocking of the boat a constant reminder of their fragility. Soufiane felt exhaustion gnawing at his limbs, his arms burning from holding the tiller steady, his legs stiff from crouching for balance. Still, he could not allow himself to falter. Not now.
"Do you think we'll make it?" Meriem's voice broke through the monotony, small and tentative.
Soufiane looked first at her, then at Amal. The fire in their eyes steadied him. "We have to," he said quietly. "There's no other choice. The city is gone, but the world is bigger than this. If we survive the night, we'll find a way forward. Step by step. Mile by mile."
A sudden gust of wind roared across the water, and the boat lurched violently, nearly tipping. Amal shouted, planting her feet, leaning into the movement, her arms straining to steady the craft. Soufiane countered immediately, twisting the tiller, muscles quivering, sweat running down his forehead. The Atlantic tested them relentlessly, but together, they held fast.
Soufiane's mind wandered briefly to the endless questions that had no answers: Would the infected reach other cities? Were there survivors elsewhere? Could they ever rebuild what had been lost? He pushed them aside, forcing focus back on the now—the waves, the wind, the fragile boat beneath them, and the two lives depending on him.
Through the darkness, a flicker of light appeared, faint and distant. Soufiane squinted, unsure if it was a reflection of the moon on a wave or the lantern of a ship. His pulse quickened. Even a glimmer offered hope—a reason to keep going, to keep paddling, to keep surviving.
Amal noticed it too, her lips pressing into a tight line. "Do you see that?" she asked.
Soufiane nodded. "Maybe it's someone out there. Maybe it's nothing. But it doesn't matter. We move toward it. Any sign of life is a chance."
Meriem leaned closer, trembling. "We'll get there?"
"We will," Soufiane said firmly, more to himself than to her. "Together. One night, one wave, one breath at a time."
The boat pitched once more, but Soufiane held it steady. Ahead, the dark waters stretched endlessly, unknown and unforgiving, yet for the first time since leaving Casablanca, a path forward glimmered. Survival was no longer a hope—it was a plan. And they had each other to see it through.