Chapter FourMature

            Angelique, clutching a black ink pen, sits hunched over a trunk that has been manufactured into a temporary writing desk. A slender candle flickers on beside the coded map and a roll of parchment. The twirling flame fills the cramped room with dim yellow light, reflecting eerily off the metal bunk posts.

 “How's it?” I greet her, plopping onto the edge of the bunk nearest her.
            Her eyes remain studiously on her work. Without acknowledging me, she moves mechanically to scribble something down on the parchment. I can see from my narrow view point that it consists of two columns of markings surrounded by hastily scribbled notes.
            I lie down on my back and spin so that my feet are pressed up against the bottom of the bunk above me. The springs supporting the mattress make a harsh shrieking sound when I press up on them. Angelique winces and finally turns to face me.

“What are you, four?" she snaps.
“Four and a half, actually,” I reply.
She snorts and returns to her work, but I can tell the ice is finally broken.
“You're not having much luck,” I say plainly.
“Oh, really? Who'd've guessed.”

“No need to get snippy.”

“I’m not—” She pauses, closes her eyes, and lets out a slow breath. “I’m just so frustrated. This map is like a puzzle. Nothing is explicitly labeled, and there are a bunch of weird clues buried in symbolism and riddles.” She throws up her hands angrily. “This is the worst map I’ve ever seen.”

            I nod sagely. “Sucks,” I offer.

            She returns to her work and we fall back into silence. Finally,

            “You’re going to destroy your eyes if you keep going the way you are,” I advise her.

            She growls through a clenched jaw. “And why is that, d’you think?” she replies. “If I had some real light instead of this flimsy goddamn candle, I may come out of this with my eyesight fully intact.”

            I leap up off the bunk. “Well if it was a light you needed, you coulda just asked,” I say. “Wait here.”
            I head down the hallway toward the supply closet. The ship’s belly is a maze of hallways and interconnecting rooms, virtually unnavigable to strangers and newcomers. That’s probably why my parents built it that way—so that only long-time crew members, people they could trust, would be able to find their way around.

            The supply closet is on the other side of the ship, tucked between two crew cabins. A virtual mountain of junk is stacked inside; I have to open the door carefully and shield my fragile head with my free hand. Once the door is safely open and no skull-shatterings have occurred, I locate the box where we store electric lamps—I generally prefer candles and gas lamps to electric light for the sake of ambience—and close the door so as not to disturb the precarious mass of assorted items.

            A shuffling sound from behind announces the arrival of one of the rescued Greek sailors. His torso is bare and scoured with puckered gashes. Metal cuffs trailing ragged chains where Robin had cut them hang on his spindly wrists and ankles. The seams of his pants barely hold together and the hems are but tattered shreds. His nails are chipped and yellowed, as are the watery gray eyes peering out from beneath the brim of his flat-topped sailor’s hat, the only part on his person that seems mostly unharmed by the whole captured-and-enslaved deal. He gives off a general air—and smell—of misery. My nose wrinkles in repulsion.

            His expression hardens and he says something in a harsh, guttural voice. Shit, I think I offended him. Offering a smile and a shrug that hopefully conveys I don’t speak Greek so I have no idea what you’re saying, I turn around and start to head back to Angelique’s cabin, but he says something again, this time his voice raised nearly to a shout.

            With my back still facing him, I shut my eyes, count to seven, and pray for composure. When I turn to him, I hold up my hands in a universal gesture of surrender and enunciate my words carefully. “I do not speak Greek,” I say. Pointing to him with one hand, I mime a speaking gesture, then point to myself and shake my head. “No Greek. Spanish? English? Yes. Greek? No.”

            His face contorts furiously and he starts shouting again. Through the melee, a single word jumps out at me, a word that sounds vaguely like capitán. Aggressive hand gestures accompany his words, but I have abso-fucking-lutely no damn idea what he could possibly be trying to convey.

            I point to myself again. “No Greek. None.” Then I point behind me. “I am going now. Leave. I leave now.”

            I’ve not made it three steps before he jumps me. I hear the chains clanking against his cuffs before he reaches me, but it’s still only barely enough time for me to grab my weapon. We end up locked in an awkward tussle, my arm folded against my side as I struggle to wrest my cutlass from its sheath while the sailor is half draped across my back, hands scrabbling across my body for something to injure. One of his filthy hands tries to cover my mouth, so I fight the bile rising in my throat and bite down hard on one of the fingers. He howls in pain and moves to cover my eyes instead.

            “What the fuck are you doing?” I shout, stumbling back awkwardly. Even though I’m wearing my braces now and consider myself rather strong anyway, he’s a pretty sturdy guy and has now wrapped his limbs around me in such a way that I can’t possibly keep my balance. It takes all my effort to locate the nearest wall and use it as support so that I don’t topple over. The sailor howls in my face, giving me a full dose of breath foul enough to wilt plants.

He shouts some more and I fight the urge to spit directly into his mouth. The combination of B.O. and halitosis is enough to disarm me on its own; he takes this moment to snatch my cutlass out of reach with one hand and tug my head back by the hair with the other. A lot of things are going through my mind right now, but even so, I have to marvel at the way he’s managing to keep his legs wrapped around my body without his hands to hold him up.

“A+ upper body strength, buddy. Kudos,” I say.

He sneers and starts to rant at me in Greek. At this point I’m so over the whole thing that I let his words go right to the back of my brain. I’m mainly concerned about getting to the dagger that I keep in one of my boots. I try to slide subtly down the wall without going off balance and getting crushed by the big screaming Greek dude wrapped around me like a fucking monkey. My fingers inch sloooowly down my calf—goddamn, do I wish I wore higher boots—reaching for the blade tucked into the little strap sewn into the canvas.

C’mon, just a little bit farther—although I don’t dare a glance down, I’ve got to be nearly there, come on. My fingertips stretch as far as I can make them, past the top of my boot cuff. They brush against the wooden handle of the tiny weapon and my heart soars with excitement.

In a sudden motion, I tug the dagger free and jab it into the sailor’s thigh. He shrieks and loses his grip on my waist. He falls back solidly against the carpeted floor, his breath rushing from him in a sharp wheeze. The clamor attracts a couple crew members (guess they couldn’t be bothered when he was shouting himself hoarse at me), among them Anamaria.

She looks from the bloodied dagger in my hand to the disoriented sailor groaning on the floor to the broken lamp, which I’d dropped during the attack. “What the fuck is going on here?” she snaps.

It is only then that I realize what this scene must look like to them. “He fucking attacked me,” I insist. “Did none of you notice the part when he literally jumped on me and started screaming at me in Greek? ‘Cause that was definitely a thing that happened before I stabbed him.”

“Go get Angelique,” Anamaria orders one of the crew. “And you,” she says to another, “find something to clean up this glass.” They both scurry off. Anamaria then turns her full attention on me. Her face is composed, but I can tell that she’s heading quickly into wanting-to-bite-Ingrid’s-face-off mode. It’s a rare and awful sight; I try to rouse it as infrequently as possible.

“Do you have any idea,” she says, “any at all, why that man might want to attack you?”

“No, dammit, I haven’t done anything to the guy. I mean, he’s Greek. They roast baby goats and eat raw eggs to celebrate Jesus’ resurrection. They’re fucking whack,” I protest.

She fixes me with a look of exasperation that makes me get those vaguely homicidal urges again. It’s enough that I look like a complete idiot in front of my crew for apparently stabbing a guy without reason; now my quartermaster is making me feel like a scolded child.

Just then, one of the crew members returns with Angelique. “Thank god,” Anamaria says, turning her eyes heavenward. “What say our humble resident scholar? Is the good sailor a mad Greek, or what?”

Angelique, apparently unfazed by the tumultuous scene, bends down at the injured man’s side and places a gentle hand on his shoulder. She gives him an encouraging smile and begins to speak in rapid Greek. He returns the smile, but his response is evidently on the unsavory side. Angelique’s face contorts with rage, and she rears back and slaps him hard across the face.

“What did he say?” Anamaria asks anxiously.

“He said—” Angelique’s mouth opens to speak, but flounders, as if the words are too physically painful to speak. “He thinks we’re—we’re thugs here to kidnap him and his crew. He called us dirty, brown-faced monkeys.”

The words are like a mallet straight to my gut. I’m halfway between walking away and introducing his jaw to the heel of my boot, but Anamaria reads my thoughts and wraps my arm in a sturdy grip. While I can’t see her face as she is standing a bit behind me, I feel a deep and familiar tremor run through her.

“Those are dangerous words,” I say stonily. I shake off my guardian’s hand and advance toward the sailor, who has recovered enough to prop himself up on one arm and glare at me. “The kind of words a bunch of thugs,” I meet his eyes with cold disdain, “would usually take as a threat.”

He dropped my sword when I knocked him out, and I go to retrieve it now. I examine the weapon pensively, running my thumb along the ridged edge. The soft glow of the gas lamps mounted on the wall reflect off the comically sharp blade.

Angelique, still kneeling on the floor, gazes up at me with hollow sadness. “Ingrid, please. I know it’s not right for him to say those things, but—”

“Chill. I’m not gonna kill him,” I assure her.

At that moment, the other crew member whom Anamaria had sent to get something to clean up the broken lamp rushes back down the hallway. “Captain—captain, you need to come quick,” they gasp, bending over as they struggle for breath. “It’s a mutiny.”

I groan. “My fucking luck,” I mutter. I sheath my sword and head for the stairs. “One of you stay back to watch him. The rest of you follow me.”

As I lead them through the labyrinth of the hold, we can hear furious shouting from above. We reach the stairs and sprint up to the main deck, where we are met with one of the most ridiculous standoffs I’ve ever seen. Gathered about the base of the gun deck are the members of my crew, well fed, well washed, and very obviously well armed. Opposite them, clumped around the foremast, are the mutinous Greek pirates, all scraggly beards and fatal-level B.O., clothed in tatters and scars.

Besides the sheer ridiculous nature of the sight, it also strikes me at that moment that all the Greeks are white men. Even though I doubt it by their smell, someone must have introduced them to soap at some point—or maybe it’s just the lighting, now that the storm clouds have fully receded—because they were definitely more brown the last time I saw them.

Most of the shouting is coming from the bow side. Even if I spoke fluent Greek, I wouldn’t have been able to tell what they were saying, there are so many of them yelling over one another. I turn to Anamaria at my side, snatch her pistol out of its holster, and fire a single shot straight up into the air.

The sailors instantly go quiet. I hand the pistol back to its owner with a nod of thanks, then stride to the center of the deck. I hook my thumbs in my belt and look around stonily to build max suspension. Back near the gun deck, I catch Angelique covering her mouth to smother her laughter.

“So,” I say, raising my voice to be heard above the cacophony of the waves slapping against the hull and the sails snapping in the breeze, “I hear tell of a little mutiny goin’ on.”

“Pardon me, captain,” one of my crew pipes up, “but ‘tain’t much of a mutiny if the ones as are revolting ain’t part of the crew.”

“Alright, I’ll give you that.” I then turn my gaze on the rebels clustered about the mast. They visibly shrink back, but return my look with almost laughable hatred.

“For fuck’s sake, guys,” I say. “We rescued you. Those people were going to have you executed and we risked our sorry butts for you. Like, okay, they had nooses hanging from a goddamn cross and sealed you up in chains, and you assume we’re the bad ones?”

Angelique hurries across the deck to my side. She translates for the strangers. When she’s finished, many of them ease their gazes and turn away, evidently somewhat embarrassed.

“Anything to say, guys? Anything? ‘Cause, you know, hear I thought our issues came from some kind of miscommunication due to our language barrier. But now I see the problem! You’re all just massive racists!”

Angelique translates, and still none of them speak. I snort with disgust.

“Typical,” I say. “Throw ‘em in the brig until I figure out what to do with them.”

As several of my crew surround our guests-turned-prisoners and start to usher them away, a fresh clamor erupts from below. Three more Greeks come rushing out of the hold clutching canvas sacks. Upon seeing the gathered crew collectively staring at them, they pause, seeming to consider their options, then turn and sprint back downstairs.

“Manuela?” I call. She steps out from the shadows beneath the gun deck, head ducked. I gesture her closer with one finger. She inches meekly across the deck, hands tugging absently at the hem of her shirt. When she reaches me, I grab her chin in one hand and yank her face toward mine.

“You were the one who insisted we go back and help these fucking weasels,” I snap. She winces and tries to jerk away from me, but I keep my hold on her chin. “You tried to make my own crew turn against me so you could pressure me into going back to help out some smelly old white guys and they ended up stealing from us.”

“I just wanted to help,” she said, not quite meeting my eyes.

“Help who, Manuela? Did you really care about them, or were you just trying to make yourself feel good? So you could feel a little righteous?”

“I didn’t know.”

“Shut up. You out of all of us know you can’t ever trust people—people like them.”

Part of me almost regrets the words when I see the tears start to gather in her eyes, but the anger roiling through my body is too strong. I shove her away.

“Go find those two,” I instruct her, nodding toward the stairs. “You wanted them on this ship so badly, now you can be in charge of holding them until we can find a place to stop. You’re on brig duty indefinitely.” I then turn to address the rest of the prisoners, who have been standing frozen, watching the scene. “Be fucking grateful I don’t just haul you overboard. I’m a captain of the code.”

My blood is still fuming in my veins as I stomp along the deck, away from everyone else, toward the bow. I round the fo’c’sle and lean against the wall, staring at the swirling white foam in our wake. The wind has been steady throughout the day and we’re at a prime angle to catch the best of it. So far that seems to be the only positive thing about this whole damn day.


Jimena’s voice snaps me out of my musing. They’re squatting atop the railing at the edge of the fo’c’sle, grasping a loose line for support. “Manuela found the prisoners. But, uh…”

“What, Jimena? What could possibly have occurred in the brief span of time in which my incredibly hard headed first mate scampered off to locate our thieving foreign visitors that warrants an interruption of my very rare and very precious alone time?”

“Uh, they set the galley on fire.”


I can smell the smoke before I’m halfway down the stairs. A small crowd has already gathered outside the room, everybody shouting and flitting about in a panic. I try to shove my way into the room, but the air is dense with acrid smoke. Though I can’t see the flames, the heat is great enough to make me draw back from the threshold.

“Is there anyone inside?” I call out.

“No,” someone answers. “The room was empty when they lit the fire. We think they were trying to steal food, but when we caught them they panicked.”

I allow myself a brief moment to slam my fist into the wall. It clears enough of the steaming anger that the cogs in my brain begin to chug along dutifully. I locate someone who isn’t acting like a startled rabbit and instruct them to go grab some damp towels. Then I elicit the help of another crew member to clear the squawking crowd and bring at least some order.

Once my first helper has returned with the towels, I hand them out to a couple of the remaining crew members. “The rest of you go find some buckets and start hauling some water down here,” I say.

“Um, captain, ‘scuse me,” one of them says, “but how’re we supposed to get enough water down here?”

“Oh, Christ,” I groan. “We’re in the middle of the ocean, for god’s sake. Figure it out.”

“Shouldn’t we have something a bit more sophisticated than a bunch of people dragging buckets up and down the stairs? Like, a hose?” someone suggests as the others hurry away.

“I’ll put it on my shopping list,” I reply.

With several of us transporting water assembly-line-style, it only takes half an hour for us to completely snuff out the blaze and air out the smoke. What remains is a soggy, blackened galley littered with broken glass and appliances. I kick dejectedly at a wine glass warped and discolored from the heat. It rolls across the charred wooden floorboards in a crooked semicircle.

One of the crew places a hand on my shoulder. “You alright, captain?” they ask gently.

Their pity makes my stomach curdle. I resist the urge to slap their hand away and give a taut nod. Sometimes I feel like it’s probably better that they mistake my frustration for sadness; I’d rather they avoid me out of sensitivity to my feelings rather than fear of my temper.

Debris crunches beneath my boots as I stride back out into the hallway. I start for the stairs, but as I’m about to turn, a movement outside the porthole catches my eye. I whip back around and peer out through the grimy glass. The porthole is well above sea level, so it’s easy for me to make out the writhing shapes against the crystalline water.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I elbow the attending crew members out of my way as I sprint down the hallway toward the brig. It’s not so much a formal cell as a random room toward the stern that we use to hold unruly ship guests. Truthfully, we’ve never actually had to deal with a situation where putting people in the brig was necessary, so it’s not exactly fortified. My only assurance that the prisoners are actually being kept secure is Manuela’s watchfulness—oh, god, what was I thinking?

When I reach the room, the door is yawning open and Manuela is lying on the floor just outside, wrists bound and mouth gagged with strips of filthy cloth. I drop to my knees and untie her.

“You didn’t let them get out, did you?” I cry, nudging her shoulder perhaps a bit too hard.

“Ow. No, I didn’t let them do anything. They jumped me,” she replies, looking hurt.

“And you didn’t think to lock the fucking door?”

“What was I supposed to do? You didn’t give me a key or whatever, you just said ‘Manuela, it’s your fault, blah blah blah, go guard the prisoners—”

I don’t even bother interrupting her whiny vein. I get to my feet and drag her with me down the halls and upstairs to the main deck. Almost all of my crew members have gathered along the port side to gawk and exclaim over the same thing I’d witnessed from the porthole—the two dozen or so Greek sailors hurling themselves off the edge of the deck and paddling out into the great expanse of the sea.

“Fucking idiots,” I muttered.

“Captain!” One of the crew members who’d assisted me in clearing out the scene outside the galley, a gunner named Arielle, rushes out from belowdecks wielding a sheaf of tattered note paper. They reach me, panting, and burst out, “We took an inventory of everything we could find in the galley and pantry. The prisoners took everything. What they didn’t steal, they must have burned.”

Brilliant fireworks shoot off in my skull. The sensation must be tangible to others because Arielle takes a few steps back, fingers tightening on the notes clutched tightly against their chest. I wait for the aggressive throbbing behind my eyeballs and the painful tension in my jaw to recede before I start issuing commands.

“That’s—that’s fucking perfect,” I say at last, a bit hysterically. I make a show of glancing around to check if anyone’s listening in, then gesture Arielle closer and put my arm around their shoulders. “Now, you seem like a good kid. I trust you. So how’s about you do me a favor and go throw that inventory report into the sea?”

“But, Captain Liston, that would be withholding vital information from the rest of the crew,” they reply.

“Love, if I had a coin for every time I’ve withheld vital information from you people for your own safety.” I clap her on the shoulder. “Good sailor. Now scurry off.”

I grab one of the mates and instruct them to go find Angelique and tell her to meet me in my quarters. Once they’re gone, I make quick work of dispersing the crew and getting them to return to their regular positions.

Back in my cabin, I finally release my mounting frustration in an enormous sigh. I drop onto my hammock and allow my momentum to rock me for several moments. I imagine that all my anger is a black river flowing out of my pores and leaking through the fabric of the hammock, dripping down through the floor boards and into the ocean and far, far away from me. It helps, marginally. Briefly, I consider the benefits of hiring a personal masseuse.

A rapping on the door jams into the serene haze of my relaxation. “’S open,” I call out.

Angelique enters and closes the door behind her. “Clearly, you aren’t letting the stress get to you too much,” she says with a smirk upon noticing me. “Good for you, captain.”

“Grab a seat. Stay a while.” I gesture to the myriad of overstuffed chairs clumped in front of my desk. She pulls one close and straddles it with the back of the seat facing me, folding her arms across the top and gazing at me studiously.

“I admire you,” she says. “I could never be such a hardass and not feel even the tiniest bit of guilt about it. You can really pull off the heartless commander thing. It’s like a gift.”

“You know, between escaping the perils of a mermaids’ den, being harassed by a bunch of white British punks, staying up all night chasing you down, getting kidnapped by mobsters, executing an extremely violent and, may I say, daring rescue to save a bunch of foreign pirates from the noose, then those pirates burning my galley, stealing all our food, and escaping into the ocean, this is honestly the first relaxing moment I have had in the past twenty-four hours. And I will not let you spoil it for me.”

“Fair enough. So why’d you call me in here?”

“Needed to know if you’ve made any progress on the map.”

“’Progress’ is a relative term. I think—key word, think—I’ve figured out the first step.”

“Excellent. Go find Lucia and we’ll figure out some coordinates.”

“Well, that’s the thing,” she says hesitantly. “The location isn’t exactly geographical.”


“Okay, there’s this legend—the legend of the Rocas del Diablo. You’ve heard of them?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“Not much to it. The goddess of the sea fell in love with a sailor, the sailor went and married someone else, the goddess got super jealous and made a bunch of perilous cliffs come out of the ocean so that he’d get lost and never find his way out, yadda yadda. Anyway, I’m pretty sure the first step in this map is hinting at the Rocas del Diablo.”

“’Kay, a bunch of rocks sticking out of the ocean sounds mighty geographical to me.”

She swats me on the arm. “Legend of the Rocas. They’re not real. They’re made up. No one has ever provided physical proof that they even exist.”

I wave my hand in a dismissive gesture. “You know why people make up legends, Angelique? Two reasons only—first, to entertain, and second, to explain something for which there is no tangible proof. Nobody sat down one day and said to themselves, ‘Hey, I think I’m gonna make up a totally pointless story about a goddess who falls in love with a sailor and makes a bunch of magic rocks appear, that’ll totally earn me fame and prestige.’ No, someone survived those cliffs and didn’t know how to explain them, so they came up with whatever explanation made the most sense to them.”

Before she can reply, the door bursts open and two crew members enter, each holding an arm of a scrawny white boy around eight years old. He’s struggling to get free, lashing out with his feet and growling in what he probably found a very menacing manner.

“We found this kid skulking around the galley,” one of them informs me. “Probably broke off from the prisoners and tried to stow away with us.”

“I already told you I’m not one of them!” the boy cries out. “If you’d just let me go, I could show you—”

 “Shut it,” they respond.

“Please. Just let go of one of my arms.”

“I said shut it.”

“Hey,” I interject, sitting up a bit in my hammock. “Just let the kid show you what he wants to show you.”

As soon as one of his hands is loose, the boy bows his head and begins emphatically scrubbing at his face with his shirt. When he looks back up, his cheek is almost midnight black.

“’S all makeup,” he explains.

I stare in silence for a couple minutes. My brain feels like a weathered cushion that has been repeatedly smashed against a jetty throughout the past twenty-four hours, and this kid has just dropped an anvil on top of it cartoon villain-style.

“So, just to make sure I am one hundred percent clear here,” I say, rising from my hammock, “you, for whatever reason, disguised yourself as a white kid, stowed away with a bunch of Greek pirates on their way to be executed, and instead of swimming away to almost certainly perish miles from the nearest coast, you elected to stay on board.”

He nods.

I close my eyes and let out a slow breath, making sure to count all the way to seventeen. “Why,” I say at last, “why on this good green Earth would you do that?”

“I had to,” he replies. “I was sent here.”

“Who sent you?” I ask.

“I dunno.”

I groan. “Alright, fine. Do you know where you live? Is there somewhere we can drop you off?”

“I live in Portmore.” He looks down at his feet, suddenly shy, and scuffs his bare feet against the wooden floor boards. “I don’t live anywhere,” he tells the floor. “Raiders took my momma and burned down our house. I jus’ sorta wander.”

Angelique suddenly brightens up and goes to kneel next to him so that she’s at his eye height. “What was your momma’s name, honey?” she asks.

He avoids her eyes, but answers, “Juliana Prince.”

Angelique puts a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I think I knew her. She lived above the grocery store on Main Street, isn’t that right?” He nods.

“What are you—” I try to interrupt, but Angelique shoots me a poisonous look.

She continues, “It was really sad, what happened to your momma. But do you wanna know something?” He nods again. “When I was very little, my momma was taken too. It was very scary because then I was all by myself, taking care of my brothers and sisters. It was alright, though, because I knew I was being watched over.”

“I dun believe in God,” he says firmly, glancing up for the first time.

“That’s fine. You don’t have to. But you always have someone watching out for you. And right now, that’s us.”

She pats his shoulder and stands up. “Bring him to my cabin. He can stay there,” she tells the two crew members.

I wait until the door is closed before I explode. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Did you completely miss that whole part where I told you about how incredibly fucking stressed all this shit is making me?”

“Then don’t get stressed about this one,” she says coolly, taking her place back in her chair. “You take care of getting us food and I’ll worry about the kid.”

“That isn’t the point here, Angelique. You invited someone onto my ship without my permission and gave orders to my crew members right in front of me. It’s like you’re forgetting who the goddamn captain of this vessel is.”

She shrugs. “He’s a cute kid. Reminds me of my little brothers. I really don’t see the problem with keeping him here.”

I restrain the intense urge to stab her and plop back down on my hammock. “Fine. Go right ahead. Keep the kid, I don’t give a shit. Now if it isn’t any inconvenience to you, I haven’t slept in almost two days, so I really need a nap.”

“Gotcha,” she says, rising to leave.

“Oh, and if you happen to catch Tsura, warn her that I might be paying her a trip soon,” I add. “My blood pressure is so many kinds of dangerous right now.”

The End

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