Current day

The cloth squeaks across the ship's steel skeleton. Perhaps the piercing sound will chase the gnawing thoughts from his mind. The boy does not want to remember that night… 

Alone, lonely in a foreign wilderness. Scared, afraid and lost. 

He remembers the pain. This had been the first time he felt that hellish burning inside his lungs. The droplets of blood that sprayed from his mouth with every wheeze. At first, only a little and sparse, but then the colour got darker as it started to fountain from his mouth. 

No no no no no!  He had known the signs, of course. 

The disease had come to his village in the early months of the year and took hold, first of the frail and elderly, then of the young and small, and finally almost half of the village's population. 

The boy gulped. His mother had been the one to succumb first, but his father followed shortly after. 

But that had been weeks ago. In his naiveté, he believed himself safe. 

Cloth still polishing the ships engine, he let out a huff. What a fool he had been. 

Subconsciously, his hand flies to the cloth in his pocket. He only got one today. It's still the same he has used to wipe his face yesterday. It is still good. And should do the job. Although he prays no new attack will come today. 

But when has been the last day without? They have become more frequent since he boarded the ship. 

The boy jerks from his maudlin thoughts, as a big paw clasps his shoulder, squeezes it, then let go. It could have been a friendly gesture, if it was not for the force the man used. The boy stares back defiantly.

The man is not much older than he, but he has the pockmarked face of someone used to withstand harsh weather conditions for a very long time. He is larger than the boy, but not by much, and has a sturdier torso. Besides that, he is just as malnourished as any other man on board. 

The boy braces himself for a similar greeting from that man's companion. The second crew mate who knows his secret. But that man is nowhere to be seen. 

Without saying a word, the pockmarked man does walks away to his workstation. No words need to be exchanged. The gesture is clear. I am watching you. I know you are frail and weak. And one day sooner or later, I will remove those papers from your frozen fingers.

The boy clenches his teeth. He is not dead yet. And there is still a chance he will survive. He only has to hold out until they reach the new world. The new world, where they have state-of-art hospitals and a cure for everything.

What's going on here? The commander's raised eyebrow communicates, and the boy hurries to continue his task. Fumes of burning oil creep into his nostrils, and tickle his already inflamed lungs. The boy bites hard on his lower lip, hard enough that he will draw blood any moment. But a bloody lip is the better of two evils. 

There will be no word coming from his mouth, not until he finds himself able to sneak to the upper deck, where his coughs, are concealed by the sound of the vicious waves. 

The cloth continues to squeal along the metal, as he's rubbing his fingers raw. 

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