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Arthur checked his watch. He had a meeting in Cabo in forty-eight hours, and at this rate, he’d arrive either three days late or at the bottom of the Pacific. Every time the Dog tipped past fifteen degrees, Arthur felt his stomach attempt a solo mission out of his throat.

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Arthur looked out at the churning gray horizon. He wasn't thinking about the wine. He was just thinking about a world that stayed level. Arthur checked his watch

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Arthur pulled out his phone, the screen slick with mist. He typed three words that felt like a ransom payment for his sanity: .