Young Gregory sat on the poop deck railing and watched the small land mass drift by. He knew that the ship was, in fact, doing the drifting, but it was more amusing to think of the island being in motion. It’s all about perspective, he liked to tell himself.

For instance, it’d be easy to see the isolation and desperation in the life of a pirate’s cabin boy. He ate hard tack and drank brackish water. The crew teased him mercilessly for his hair lip and missing finger. The beatings weren’t nearly so bad when the captain had enough rum in him. Then again, the rum brought other problems.

But he tried to remain positive. It’s not like life in the orphanage was much better. On land or on sea, always someone around to beat you, point out your flaws, or use you in some other way. And he’d never really decided which was worse, gruel or hard tack with weevils. It was a close race.

The island, an empty island with not another soul on it, was now directly to port. With only half a thought, Gregory jumped.