You're not a person, they say, circling. You're one of Them. From the other side.

Last night, I dreamt of the drowned man again.

It starts with a murmur. A prayer, slithering through a sleeping shipmate's lips. Or perhaps a confession, or a memory caught in the fog of the ghostly hours before dawn. It lingers little down here, in the stale air heavy with the stench of urine and unwashed bodies. Soon it rises higher, amidst the sails and the riggings, hungry for fresh air. Then comes the scratching against the ship's hull. Grip by grip, claw-like hands dig into the wood dragging upwards God knows what.

Anna stared up at Sally. Her hair and skin were so pale as to be almost white, especially in the weak sunlight of the factory. She was only twenty-two, Anna knew, only five years older than Anna herself, but she looked worn through, like milk watered down too thin.