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April 2018
Smoke seeps from my lips, drifting out over the boat rail like a curl of fog. Tonight, the water’s placid, an inky black with smears of pastel starlight. Out here in the middle of the Atlantic, the sky at night is more glitter than darkness. Hazy swaths of purple, peach, and green sky twinkle with diamond-bright stars, their reflection gleaming on the curve of wave that runs alongside the boat.
I curl my hand around my cigarette and bring it to my mouth again.
I’m standing atop the cargo ship’s flat hull, hidden from most vantage points by the twenty-foot-tall boxy structure just behind me: the navigation post and captain’s quarters. At this hour, both are likely empty. The crew is down below deck, playing poker. Still, I turn the cherry toward my palm.
Better to stay hidden.
That’s been my game since I boarded Miss Aquarius back in Cape Town: wear my cap low, keep my mouth shut, and help out where I’m needed till I reach my destination.
I close my eyes on a long drag and lean against the railing. That’ll be tomorrow. Fuck.
I finish off the smoke and light another one.
It’s fucking cold out here. My T-shirt’s not enough, even with jeans. South of the equator, we’re headed into fall—in early April. Strange stuff. I swallow hard and look down at the deck under my feet. Then I cast my gaze up to the sky and fill my lungs with salty air.
When I feel something in my hand, I look down, finding a line of ash in my palm. I bring the Marlboro to my lips and take the last drag with shaking fingers before pinching the cherry out.
I should go below deck. Play some solitaire in my cabin. Instead I light a third smoke, and, with my free hand, rub my arms. Even after just a few months off, they’re smaller than I’m used to, making me feel like someone else.
Laughter trills into the quiet, voices rising as footfall thuds inside the stairwell to my left. Before I can turn toward the sea, figures spill onto the deck. I whirl around, snuffing my smoke out against the rail. Then I turn the other way, aiming to sneak around the navigation post, but there’s a loud “Hey, man.”
I turn slowly. Half a dozen guys are lined up in some kind of formation, making a semi-circle between the stairwell they just came out of and me.
I nod, meeting the eyes of the one who spoke. Kevin is his name. I think. He’s only an inch or two shorter than me, with blue eyes and close-cropped brown hair. He’s one of the Americans on board.
I step toward the stairwell, but Kevin catches my arm. “Hang on a sec. We wanna talk to you.”
I hear another say, “We barely know you,” at the same time as a third—not an American, judging by his accent—is saying, “been six days.”
I nod. Hold up a hand. “George,” I say, as I step between two of them.
“That’s the thing, though,” he sneers. “We don’t think it is.”
“No?” I look behind me.
They’re all grinning. “Hell no.”
“We been watching.”
“We’ve got an idea about you.”
My stomach pitches as a hand claps my shoulder.
“You can tell us.”
“We know you’re not George.”
One dude jerks a thumb at the captain. “You know Bo, don’t you? He’s the cap’n. No good lying to the captain.”
Bo steps closer. He’s older than most of the crew members, but still young. If I had to guess, I’d say no older than forty-five. He’s wearing khaki-looking shorts and a stained Costa tee. “I know what your papers say. But take your hat off, mate, and help me win a wager.”
I shake my head, stepping backward toward the stairwell. “Night, guys.”
“I told you it’s not him.” Someone’s in the stairwell, lighting a cigar. He grins around it.
At that same time, I lose my hat. I spin around and snatch it back, glaring at the fucker who took it. His eyes widen at the clear view of my face.
