Ethan was staring at the moon. He sat up, gasping and choking. He rolled off the padding and clawed at the raw planks of the floor. Then he heard the water. A soft summer breeze blew up tiny waves. They splashed like cymbals against the pilings that rose to either side of where he lay. He gripped the nearest strut and forced himself to his feet. The night was utterly dark. He was dressed in a pair of raggedy cutoffs and a T-shirt. On his feet were leather sandals curled and cracked by salt and hard days. He was completely alone. Ethan cried out, a choking sound wrenched from the terror and confusion that filled him. He knew where he was. What was more, he knew when. The summer before his final year at the university, when he and his best friend had wrangled jobs at the Holiday Marina. The long pier ran back to the shore, every plank in place, the pilings straight as arrows. The marina’s unmistakable form was silhouetted by yellow streetlights. Four A-frames housed the sailing classes, the repair shop, the store, and the stockrooms. An old canvas inflatable raft lay on the pier, with a…