you turn the other way.

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

Fine. Let them fall.

You grasp the thick brass doorhandle to the cargo cabin and turn it. Locked. You kneel and produce your trusty skeleton key, remembering the day you received it, when your father stood before you—and not just you, but an other you, as well. Old Pa 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. Skeleton key or empty palm. A future or nothing at all.

You chose wisely.

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

Now, 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; never look back; don’t look at the dogs.

The lock surrenders and you press into the dark room, sealing the door behind.

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. Heavy pounding against the wood as already it begins to crack. You have no more time. They’re here. It won’t be long before the door gives in.

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