I am not smart with words, but I work hard every day of my life.
When I come on boat I have only shirt and pants. The food is not kosher and I soon begin to starve. In middle of ocean, I trade pants for tin of herring. Is very cold without the pants. But I survive.
They send me to Brooklyn and I find job in pickle factory. Every day, I crawl through gears and pull out rats. Is not so easy. The rats have sharp teeth and do not like to be touched. But I work hard. When I start in 1908 they pay me eighty cents each day. By 1912 they are giving me ninety cents, plus bowl of potato soup.
I find beautiful girl named Sarah. Her left leg is lame since youth, but she has all her teeth. She is very clever and teaches me to spell words. I save up pennies all week long so on Sunday I can buy her treat, like seltzer or salt fish.
When we marry, and she is with child, we stay up late each night whispering. We make great plans. We will have son, and he will have son, and so on and so on and so on. And some day years from now, when we are dead and gone, our family name will stand for strength and honor. Someday our hopes and dreams will come to pass.
One day at work I fall into brine and they close the lid above me by mistake. Much time passes; it feels like long sleep. When the lid is finally opened, everybody is dressed strange, in colorful, shiny clothes. I do not recognize them. They tell me they are “conceptual artists” and are “reclaiming the abandoned pickle factory for a performance space.” I realize something bad has happened in Brooklyn.
The science men come and explain. I have been preserved in brine a hundred years and have not aged one day. They describe to me the reason (how this chemical mixed with that chemical, and so on and so on) but I am not paying attention. All I can think of is my beautiful Sarah. Years have passed and she is surely gone.
Soon, though, I have another thought. When I freeze in brine, Sarah was with child. Maybe I still have family in Brooklyn? Maybe our dreams have come true?
The science man turns on computing box and types. I have one great-great-grandson still in Brooklyn, he says. By coincidence, he is twenty-seven years, just like me. His name is Simon Rich. I am so excited I can barely breathe. Maybe he is doctor, or even rabbi? I cannot wait to meet this man—to learn the ending of my family’s story.
“How about Thai fusion?” Simon asks me, as we walk along the street where I once lived. “This place has these amazing gluten-free ginger thingies.”
He gestures at crowded restaurant. It used to be metal factory.
“Are you a cilantro person?” he asks me.
“I do not know your words,” I admit.
“Oh,” he says. “Don’t worry, there’s a bagel place around the corner.”
I sigh with relief and follow Simon into store. He orders two bagels with creamed cheese and hands me one. I cannot believe how large it is—like something to feed an entire Irish family. I take three bites and put the rest in coat, to save for supper. When I look up at Simon I see that he has somehow almost finished his whole bagel. He is eating so fast, I cannot understand it. It is like he is in race and must shove all the bread in his mouth or else he will die. Between bites he gulps from his drink, which is bottle of green sugar water the size of bucket.
“Gatorade?” he asks me.
I am too repulsed even to respond.
Eventually, he has eaten all the food and swallowed all his sugars. I wait for him to catch his breath, but then I can wait no longer.
“Please,” I say. “I must know. What path have you chosen for your life?”
Simon smiles proudly at me.
“I’m a script doctor,” he says.
I shake my head with astonishment.
“That is so wonderful,” I say, my eyes filling up with tears. “I am so proud. I cannot believe my descendant is medical doctor.”
Simon averts his eyes.
“It’s actually just a screenwriting term,” he says. “ ‘Script doctor’ means I, like, punch up movie scripts.”
I stare at him blankly.
“ ‘Punch up’?”
“You know, like, add gags.”
“What sort of gags?”
He clears his throat.
“Let’s see.… Well, the script I’m working on now is about a guy who switches bodies with his pet dog? So I’m adding all these puns, like ‘I’m doggone mad!’ and ‘I’ve got a bone to pick with you!’ You know, things like that.”
A long time passes in silence.
“So you are not medical doctor.”
“No,” Simon admits. “I am not.”
Simon says he is happy I was brined. He has always wondered what it would be like to “hang out” with his great-great-grandfather.
“We’re going to have a blast,” he says. “Brooklyn has gotten so awesome, it’s crazy.”
I ask him if he knows what became of my Sarah. He shakes his head. He has worked very hard to research our family, journeying all the way to place called Ancestry Dotcom. But all he could find about Sarah was the address she shared with me in Williamsburg: 283 Bedford.
“That’s an American Apparel now,” he says. “But don’t worry. You can stay with me for as long as you want.”
He leads me down Atlantic Avenue. We pass many strange peoples wearing tight pants and circus mustaches.
“So,” I say, sadly. “If you are not real doctor, I assume you did not have real education.”
“Oh, sure I did,” he says. “I went to Harvard.”
I am amazed.
“My God,” I say. “Did they know that you were Jew?”
“It’s pretty different now,” he says.
“What did you study? Latin and Greek?”
“Nah, I was an English major.”
I squint at him.
“I do not understand. You did not speak English before?”
“No, I spoke it.”
“Then why did you study it? What was the purpose of that?”
Simon ignores me and gestures at large brown house.
“Here we are,” he says, grinning. “Not bad, huh?”
I look up at building. It is enormous.
“Are you servant here?” I ask.
“No,” he says, laughing. “I own the place!”
At this point I become suspicious.
“What other jobs do you have besides the dog gags?”
“None,” he says. “I’m a full-time screenwriter.”
Once again, I am confused. I have been with Simon all day. He clearly does not work “full time,” not even close. I explain this fact to him.
“Let’s just go inside,” he says.
Simon and I look very much the same. We are both tall (five feet seven) and have handsome bump in nose. There are differences, though. For example, his hands are very soft, like woman’s. Also, his arms are weak and small. They remind me of baby I saw once who had the infant paralysis.
When I first move in with Simon, I do not really understand what it means to be “script doctor.” But as the days go by I learn about the job. The way it works is this: each day, for twenty minutes, he sits down and types up words. The rest he spends complaining.
“I’m so pissed off,” he tells me one day. “They hired me to polish the new ‘Spy Donkey’ sequel. But just looking at it, it’s going to need a page-one rewrite. It’s, like, I didn’t sign up for this. You know what I mean, Hersch?”
I do not know what he means. But it is clear he is upset, because he is drinking so much alcohols in the middle of the day.
“That sounds bad,” I say, trying my best to be polite.
“It’s real bad,” he says. “There’s no way I’m doing a whole fucking draft for them. It’s, like, you gotta draw the line somewhere, you know?”
He refills his alcohol glass.
“You ever deal with this kind of bullshit at the pickle factory?”
I think about it.
“There was one time my friend got caught in the gears,” I say. “And it ripped up his torso, through the chest. And there was blood coming out of his mouth and he was screaming. And I plead with them to stop the machine, because my friend is dying, but no one listens to me, and my friend keeps howling until he is dead. And for years I see his face inside my dreams, with the blood coming out of his eyes and his mouth, begging for me to please save him.”
Simon says nothing for a while.
“Maybe I’ll just do the draft,” he mutters.
One night we have dinner with Claire, a goyish woman Simon mates with in defiance of our Lord.
“So,” she asks me, “where are you from originally?”
“Slupsk,” I tell her.
“It’s near the Poland-Lithuania border,” Simon explains, with big smile on his face. He is wrong, but I do not contradict him. He seems very proud of knowing this one fact about me.
“That’s so cool you’re from there,” Claire says to me. “I’ve always wanted to visit Eastern Europe.”
I fold my arms and squint at her.
“Why would you visit there?”
“I don’t know,” she says, shrugging. “I hear it’s got a really cool art scene.”
I lean in close to her.
“The only scene in Slupsk is people eating horse meat to live and killing each other for potatoes.”
I point my finger at her face.
“You must never go to Slupsk,” I warn her. “It is city of death.”
“Oh,” she says, softly. “O.K.”
She stands up.
“I’m going to cut up the tofu.”
“Thanks, honey,” Simon says.
“You must never go to Slupsk!” I call out after her.
When girl is gone, I grip Simon’s shoulder and stare him in the eyes.
“That girl is too thin,” I say. “She has not long to live.”
Simon chuckles.
“That’s just how girls look these days,” he says. “Look, I’ll show you.”
He opens thick, smelly book with shiny pages. It is magazine, he explains, called The Vogue.
“This model’s famous,” he says, pointing to mostly naked woman. “She’s married to Orlando Bloom.”
I squint at the picture. The girl is very pale, with vacant eyes.
“I have seen this disease in Slupsk,” I tell him. “First, they cough the blood. Then they begin to shake. They ask for the water, but when you bring them some to drink it makes them vomit up the black. They die screaming, their eyes wide open, afraid.”
Claire returns.
“Who wants tofu?” she asks.
“Please,” I tell her. “Eat my portion.”
One day, I wake up to the sound of yelling. It is Simon. He is kicking his foot against his desk, shouting profanities.
“Motherfucker!” he cries. “Fucking God-damned fuck!”
I jump up from couch and run down hall. It is clear Simon has experienced a tragedy—something monstrous, like the death of someone close. I get to his office and gently open door. Simon is sitting at his desk, shaking his head and muttering under his breath. His skin is pale and he is out of breath from screaming.
“Goddam Internet’s down,” he says. “Second time this morning.”
“What is internets?” I ask.
“It’s a thing on computers.”
“What is computers?”
It takes him long time, but eventually Simon is able to explain. A computer is a magical box that provides endless pleasure for free. Simon is used to constant access to this box—a never-ending flow of pleasures. When the box stops working—or even just briefly slows down—he becomes so enraged that he curses our God, the one who gave us life and brought us forth from Egypt.
“It’s Time Warner,” he tells me. “They’re the fucking worst.”
He bangs his fist against his desk.
“How am I supposed to get work done without Internet?”
I glance at his computer machine. I am still learning about modern technologies. But I am pretty sure from looking at it that Simon has not been doing “work.” There are three boxes open on screen. In first, there is sports scores. In second, there is pornographies. In third, there is Simon’s own name, typed into thing called Google.
Simon notices me looking at his computer and quickly steps in front of it.
“I was taking a break,” he says, his voice loud and defensive. “You must have taken breaks sometimes at the pickle factory.”
“Is true,” I say. “Whenever there was fire, we would get to leave factory until they finish clearing out the dead.”
His phone begins to play loud song.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I gotta take this, it’s my agent.”
He picks up phone and paces around office, a pained look in his eyes.
“I already said no to that!” he says. “No—I don’t want to punch up any more sequels. Because it’s completely unfulfilling. It’s someone else’s characters, someone else’s plot—I’m supposed to be working on my novel, for God’s sake.”
He pauses mid-stride.
“They’re offering what? For just six weeks? Holy shit.”
He continues to pace, but slower, and with a strange expression on his face. It reminds me of time I saw hurdy-gurdy man get hit by brick. He was very embarrassed, and also in pain (because the brick had been thrown into his genitals). But his desire for moneys was so great he continued to play his song, and try to dance his jig.
“You know what?” Simon says, in as cheerful a voice as he can make. “That’s actually an excellent idea for a ‘Zoo Crew’ movie. I mean, they already had Captain Cow go to outer space in the fifth one. But he’s never been to the moon.”
His voice lowers.
“Do you think we can get them to go up even higher? No? O.K.—just checking.”
He puts away phone and we make eye contact.
“What are you looking at?” he asks.
“I am just standing here,” I say.
That night Simon’s goy comes with giant bag of vegetables.
“I heard you’re into pickling,” she says. “So I went on Epicurious and planned a pickle-themed menu. We’re having broiled trout with pickle butter—and a pickle-vinaigrette salad on the side.”
In truth I despise eating pickles, because they remind me of the deaths of many friends. But I do not want to be rude.
“It is generous,” I say.
“It’s nothing,” she says. “I want us to become better friends, you know?”
She takes out an onion and begins to chop it, very slowly, in an incorrect way. When Sarah chopped vegetable, she used big, heavy knife. She would hold one end down and then swiftly lower blade like it was lever. Claire chops onion using tiny, skinny knife, making one little cut at a time. We will not eat for many hours.
“I’ve been meaning to cook more,” she says. “Simon likes to go out every night. Between you and me, I’m getting pretty sick of it.”
She is barely halfway through the onion when the knife slips and slashes her finger.
“Fuck!” she screams. “Ow, fuck!”
She starts to cry as her blood seeps onto counter. Suddenly, I hear the sound of another woman shriek. I spin around and am surprised to see that it is Simon, standing there, with his hands over his eyes.
“Oh, my God!” he shouts. “Your fucking finger!”
“What do I do?” Claire cries. “What do I do, what do I do?”
“I don’t fucking know!” Simon sobs. “Fuck fuck fuck!”
I sigh and grab girl’s hand. She resists me, so I must shush her like a child.
“Is fine,” I say. “Is baby cut.”
I pour liquid soap over her finger and run faucet. She screams and I have to shush her again.
“Is fine,” I say again. “I fix.”
I grab a rag, rip off strip, dry her cut, tie the wound, and pull.
“There,” I say. “Is better.”
Claire slowly catches breath.
“Thanks, Herschel,” she says.
Simon sighs loudly and steps out from the shadows. Somehow, at some point, he has poured himself giant glass of alcohols.
“Well!” he says. “Glad that’s behind us. How about we grab some tapas?”
He is starting to put on coat, when Claire waves arms.
“We can’t,” she says. “I planned out a whole meal for Herschel.”
Simon squints at her.
“But your finger’s all fucked up.”
“It’s just a baby cut,” she says, smiling wide at me. She has all her teeth, I notice, just like Sarah.
Even though Claire is bad at cooking, and believes in false God, and dresses like prostitute, with both ankles exposed, she is not so stupid a person. I know this because she is always reading books. I have read books before—a red one and also two blue ones—so I know a little bit about it. But Claire’s books are much larger, with hard covers, and pages filled with numbers.
“She’s getting a Ph.D. in sociology,” Simon explains, when I ask him about it. “Over at Columbia.”
“What does she read so much about?”
“Something with immigration reform, I think? To be honest, I kind of tune out when she starts blabbing about it. It’s a pretty boring thing to study.”
This comment is strange, I think, coming from man who studied English in college—a language he already spoke. But I say nothing.
One afternoon, I am mending shirt in living room, when Claire enters wearing pack on back.
“Mind if I study in here?” she asks.
“Is fine,” I say.
It takes her long time to spread materials onto table. There is pencils, papers, books, ruler, electric number machine, erasing stick. The last thing she pulls out is the strangest: it is terrifying golem with wrinkled face and purple hair. She notices me staring and smiles.
“That’s my lucky troll doll. I’ve studied with it since middle school.”
I nod.
“Is it from witch?”
“I think it’s from Kmart.”
I pick up and examine, making sure not to look into its eyes.
“Simon’s always making fun of it,” Claire says.
“That is madness,” I say. “He is asking for curse.”
She laughs for some reason and opens up her book. Before she can start studying, though, Simon enters holding his computer.
“Read this,” he commands, plopping it onto her lap. “Tell me if it’s funny.”
“I’m kind of swamped,” she says. “Is it O.K. if I read it tomorrow?”
“Sure,” Simon murmurs. “No problem.”
He sighs heavily, like he is in pain, and reaches very slowly for his computer.
“O.K., O.K.,” Claire says, after a few seconds of this. “I’ll read it.”
I watch as Simon begins to pace the room, his baby arms shaking at his sides. Every few steps he glances at Claire, to watch her face.
Eventually, she looks up from the screen.
“It’s funny,” she says.
Simon glares at her. “You didn’t laugh.”
Claire hesitates.
“Well… maybe it’s not laugh-out-loud funny…”
Simon groans into his hands like a man who has lost his family. Claire hops out of chair and begins to stroke his back.
“Simon, it’s great!” she says. “The part where the dog gets auto-tuned? That’s going to kill.”
Simon peeks out between his fingers.
“You don’t think it’s cheap?”
“No!” Claire says. “It’s great! Really, really… great.”
I notice that she is using the word “great” a lot. It reminds me of when my boss gave me tour of pickle factory. He kept using the word “safe.” “These gears are very safe,” he would say. Or, “That belt is perfectly safe.” The more he said the word “safe,” the more I started to think that things were maybe not so safe.
“It’s great,” Claire says again. “The studio’s going to love it.”
“Really?” Simon asks, his voice high-pitched like a girl’s.
“Yes!” Claire says, smiling as wide as she can make her lips go.
Simon sighs with relief.
“O.K.,” he says. “Great.”
He grabs his computer, knocking down troll by mistake. When he is gone, I shoot Claire a look.
“He is asking for it,” I whisper.
She laughs as I set her troll upright.
On Friday evening, I comb my hairs and knock on Simon’s door. I am surprised to see that he is mostly naked.
“What are you doing?” I say. “It is almost sundown. We have still not said our Shabbos prayers of thanks.”
Simon moans into his hands.
“Herschel, could you just do them without me? I’m in the middle of something.”
“God commands us to rest on Shabbos.”
“Herschel, I’ve gotta turn this in by 5 P.M. L.A. time.”
“But it is Shabbos.”
“Damn it, Herschel!” he says. “I know religion’s a big part of your life, and I respect that or whatever, but it’s not a part of mine. I don’t even believe in God.”
I am so shocked it is difficult to breathe. I did not say anything when I learned that he ate bacons, and did not own yarmulke, and spoke no Yiddish (except for several words that all mean “penis”). But to learn that he has lost faith in our God—despite all the blessings in his life—it is too much to bear. It is too much for me to understand.
“How do you get through your days?” I whisper. “How do you find meaning?”
He thinks for a while.
“Through my art,” he says, finally. “That’s how I find meaning. O.K.? Through works of art.”
I squint at the script he is working on.
“What is ‘Monkey President’?”
He averts his eyes.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
I grab the script and throw it at his chest.
“No, I want you to!” I say. “I want you to tell me about this art you do that is so meaningful it would make you miss the Shabbos!”
He flips through his script and sighs.
“It’s about a monkey who becomes President.”
I squint at him with confusion.
“How would this happen?”
“He wins an election.”
“So he is able to speak, this monkey?”
Simon throws up his hands in frustration.
“Do you really want to know? Or are you just trying to make me feel bad?”
“Yes,” I say. “I want to know how this monkey becomes the President.”
He sighs again.
“He wins a break-dancing competition on the Internet.”
“That makes no sense.”
“You think I don’t fucking know that?” he shouts, throwing the script down on the floor. “I told them in six meetings that it didn’t make any fucking sense, but they won’t listen, Herschel! They want the monkey to break-dance in every scene. In the Oval Office, on Air Force One…”
His voice begins to break.
“The monkey’s always break-dancing.”
I put my arm around his shoulder.
“Maybe you should quit this horrible work?”
“Herschel, it’s not that easy,” he says. “They’re paying me thousands of dollars. I can’t turn down that kind of cash, especially when I’m trying to save up for a house.”
I am confused.
“You already have house.”
“I know,” he says. “But a bigger, wider one just went up for sale down the block.”
He points out the window. There are many brownstones everywhere, but I have no idea which one he means. They all look exactly the same.
The next day Claire runs into house, laughing and shouting.
“I’m finished!” she shouts.
“Finished with what?” Simon asks, his eyes still on his computer.
Claire sighs, crosses her arms, and marches upstairs.
“Her final exams,” I whisper to Simon.
“Oh, right,” he says. “Fuck.”
He runs upstairs.
“Honey, I was just kidding! Congratulations! Let’s celebrate!”
I hear some whispered arguing, followed by the sound of Simon pleading. Eventually, he persuades her to come back down the stairs. She has put on shiny shirt, I notice, and painted her eyelashes black.
“Better get dressed, Herschel,” Simon says. “We’re going to hit the town!”
“I am dressed already,” I say. “My shirt is mended. I am ready to go.”
Simon bites his lip.
“You know, Hersch, I was thinking, maybe you’d like to try another outfit for a change? I’ve got some old Ted Baker stuff I bet would fit you.”
“I am not one who takes charity,” I say. “My shirt is mended. Is fine.”
“O.K.,” he says, waving his hands in the air. “Just offering.”
He heads for the door, and Claire and I follow. We are almost out of house, when Claire suddenly spins around.
“Oh, no,” she says. “I forgot tomorrow’s Sunday.”
“So?” Simon says.
“The maid’s coming.”
Simon groans.
“Honey, the place looks fine.”
Claire kicks off her shoes and runs downstairs.
“Just give me a second!”
“Fuck,” Simon mutters, when she is out of earshot. “This is going to take forever.”
I hear the sound of mopping in the kitchen.
“I do not understand,” I whisper to Simon. “Why is Claire cleaning if you have hired maid?”
“Because she’s nuts,” he says. He opens wooden cabinet and pours out glass of alcohols.
I can hear more sounds from kitchen—the stacking of plates, the scraping of pots. Eventually, Claire comes upstairs, holding yellow sponge.
“You can save a little work for Hong,” Simon tells her.
“Her name is Hahn,” she says. “And I’m just doing the low surfaces, because of her back.”
I am very confused about what is happening, but I say nothing. The mood is tense and I do not want to get involved with things. Simon checks his watch as Claire finishes sponging the tables. By the time she is done, he has drunk his entire glass.
“Ready now?” he asks.
Claire sponges wet spot where Simon has spilled some liquor.
“Ready,” she mutters.
Simon pauses in front of automobile and stares at his reflection in the window. He is wearing purple scarf, even though the air is hot and there is sweat all over his face.
“Where are we going?” I ask him.
“Cabin,” he says, running fingers through his hair. “It’s the best bar on the Lower East Side.”
“Can’t we just go to Fontana, or something?” Claire asks. “There’s going to be a huge line.”
“Nobody goes to Fontana anymore,” Simon says, wrapping the scarf tighter around his neck. “Cabin’s way cooler.”
“How cool is this cabin that you need scarf?” I ask.
Claire laughs for long time. I do not understand it.
“Come on,” Simon says, grabbing Claire by the wrist.
I follow them down Avenue A. The Lower East Side, I notice, has not changed much in one hundred years. The women are still emaciated and dressed in rags; the men still wear beards and have sad eyes.
Eventually, after checking purple scarf in two more windows, Simon brings us to the bar that is called Cabin.
“There it is,” he whispers, a look of reverence on his face.
I squint with confusion at the small establishment. It looks the same as all the others we have passed. The only difference is that there is red rope in front of it, guarded by scary Negro giant.
“Hey, man,” Simon says to the giant. “Cool if the three of us go inside?”
“Sorry,” the giant says. “Private party.”
As soon as he says this, three tall men in shiny shirts appear. The giant steps aside, allowing them to enter. Simon curses under his breath.
“What is this place?” I ask Claire.
“Just some celebrity hangout,” she says.
“What is celebrity?”
“It’s, like, somebody people celebrate, because they’re doing something special with their lives.”
“Is Simon celebrity?”
She hesitates.
“Kind of? I mean… you know, in some circles… he’s sort of well known.”
I turn toward Simon. He is pleading with the giant, his hands clasped tight like a beggar’s. He does not look to me like celebrity, but what do I know about it?
Claire starts to shiver and I soon become worried. As I mentioned before, she is very thin and extremely close to death. It is not good for her to stand outside in the cold, dressed in nothing but her prostitute clothes. Her arms are naked almost to the elbow. I start to wish that I had worn my wool so I could give it to her.
“Simon!” I shout. “You must give the woman your scarf!”
Simon turns his back to us, his eyes averted. It is obvious he is pretending not to hear me, so that he can continue to wear scarf.
“I do not understand,” I say. “What is his thing with that scarf?”
Claire rolls her eyes.
“He got it in London,” she says. “He’s so obsessed with it he won’t even trust me to hang it up for him. He says it’s his ‘trademark.’ ”
Simon trudges back to us, with big forced smile on face.
“Just give me a few more minutes,” he says. “I’m making inroads.”
He is adjusting his scarf yet again when his eyes suddenly widen.
“Hey, it’s B.J.!”
He points at the bar’s entrance with both hands. A handsome man is leaving bar to smoke with beautiful woman.
“Who?” I ask.
“B. J. Novak,” Simon says. “He’s an actor—we go way back.”
He hustles down the alley and throws arms around this B.J.
“What’s up, buddy?”
The actor smiles nervously. It is obvious that he does not know Simon and is afraid.
“Remember?” Simon says. “We met in L.A. last year. During the table read for ‘Ice Chimps.’ ”
B.J.’s face turns red as the beautiful woman starts to laugh.
“You were in ‘Ice Chimps’?” she asks, her little nose wrinkling with disgust.
“Just a cameo,” B.J. says.
“He played Wayne Chimpsky!” Simon tells her. “He was hilarious.”
B.J. forces a smile and pats Simon on the shoulder.
“So great running into you,” he says. “I think we’re going to head back inside.”
“Sweet!” Simon says. “I’ll come with.”
The next thing I know, Simon is following them back into the bar, his arms around them like he is their friend.
“This guy with you?” the giant asks the B.J.
“I guess,” the actor mutters.
Simon grins with pride as the guard steps out of his way. He is almost through the door when he remembers we are with him.
“Quick!” he whispers.
We scurry in beside him, like rats across a gangplank.
This is Part One of a four-part serialization. Read Parts Two, Three, and Four.
