“This is private property!” I warned.
But no reply came. And I could sense they were closing in. Fast.
“You’re trespassing!” I yelled.
Still nothing. I turned and spotted the other rowboat gliding through the heavy mist. It was inexplicably empty, yet the oars continued their rhythmic pace, propelling the unmanned craft forward.
I felt a pit in my stomach, the cold sweat on my brow.
“Please stop!” I cried out.
I let the oars slip from my fingertips. I couldn’t row any longer. My hands ached; my arms burned.
I was never going to make it back to shore.
The Weekday One Hundred 