The harbor sirens were finally sounding, their rising and falling tones echoing across the water.

But inside the steel hull, the sound was muffled, replaced by the steady, terrifying rush of the river.

We reached the bottom of the ladder, stepping into water that was already up to our knees.

“Where is the panel?” Hayes asked, his flashlight scanning the wet, cramped corridor.

“To the right,” I said, pointing down the narrow passageway toward the auxiliary machinery space.

The emergency lighting was flickering, casting long, dancing shadows on the gray metal walls.

Suddenly, a loud metallic bang vibrated through the entire structure of the boat.

The floor beneath us tilted violently to the left, throwing me against the steel bulkhead.

My shoulder hit a pipe, sending a jolt of pain down my arm.

“The mooring lines,” Hayes said, stabilizing himself against the ceiling.

“They’ve all snapped. We’re drifting into the channel.”

“We have to hurry,” I said, pushing myself off the wall.

We waded through the rising water toward the back of the compartment.

The water was freezing, numbing my legs and making every movement slow and heavy.