Land. Awakening. The world was still again—not that infernal, incessant tossing. Except for the waves crashing foamy suds against him. But these were nothing compared to the sickening heaving of the ship in last night’s angry sea amid lashing rain. His hands hadn’t forgotten, not by still clinging to the wood plank, a raft in miniature, helping him hold onto life, kicking furiously to escape the shouting and sinking mayhem.
Are there other survivors?
Sand. Beach. Glorious morning—the calm after the storm. A palm-treed paradise, where you shouldn’t have a care in the world. The guard had described his cage that way; he should’ve felt lucky, not having to work for food. The swill he called food. Now he’d have to work hard for food—fish, exotic fruits—and to avoid the cage he left and the one he was being shipped to. Now was a new world of survival.