Tony growled a little and then acquiesced, "Okay." He laid the extra oars down along the hull of his boat and picked up one of his normal ones. He nodded at me to pick up one of mine. We each rowed with one oar, still breasted up. As the day wore on, so did I. I refused to admit it though, and rowed with all my might. We spoke little, which should have been a glaring alarm for me that something was wrong. But I poured all of my mental and physical strength into rowing, two hands on one oar, and I still grew more sluggish by the hour.

Darkness fell. Even though I couldn't see straight, I kept telling myself I'd be back to normal in the morning. When I finally lay down in my berth, the relief my body felt morphed quickly into gratefulness for Tony. Who knows where I would have ended up without his knowing friendship. That realization was the last thing I remembered before drifting off.

I can foggily recall two things from the days that followed…