… you turn the other way.

All about you, battle erupts. Hooks tied to thickly-coiled ropes fall from the sky, biting into the deck—they are seemingly launched from the waters below, as if a great squid has risen from the deep seas. The hardened battle cries of enemy sailors sound as they climb aboard followed, moments later, by the sailors of this ship shrieking in agony.

Fine. Let them fall.

You grasp the doorhandle to the cargo cabin, a thick brass lever, and turn it. Locked. You kneel and produce your trusty skeleton key, remembering the day you received it, when your father’s ne’er-do-well brother stood before you—and not just you, but an other you, as well. Your unk kneeling before you both, holding out two fists. Choose, he said. You chose one; the other chose the other. Ever since, this has been your life: this choice or that choice. Skeleton key or empty palm. A future or nothing at all.

You chose wisely.

“That’s good, too,” your uncle consoled other you. “Nothing is often the greatest gift of all.”

As you slip the key into the lock, working the springs free, you’d beg to differ. The fighting shifts across the deck, toward you. A fire begins to burn, and the greasy stench of kerosene ripening the air. Keep working the lock; don’t look back; never look at the dogs.

Finally the lock surrenders. Press into the dark room, seal the door behind you.

It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust. The room is almost empty. No shelves, no safes, no drawers, no cabinets. A lone piece of furniture, a simple desk, and on the floor beside it, slumped like a child’s body, a leather satchel. Upon the desk, a sheet of paper, a pot of ink, a quill pen.

There is writing upon the paper.

A letter.

Shouts sound outside the door. Heavy pounding against the wood—already it begins to crack. You have no more time. Men have come. It won’t be long before the door gives in.

Choose now! Read the letter or grasp the satchel and run!