The Free Star had been cutting across the Atlantic for fifteen long days and nights.
The night wind howled relentlessly against the iron walls of the ship, carrying a bitter chill that seeped through the cabins.
The vessel groaned and swayed with each wave, the metallic timbers creaking like an old, weary giant.
In the crowded third-class cabin B1-50, the air was thick and heavy. Sweat, damp clothing, mildew, and the persistent scent of the sea mixed into a pungent haze.
Over twenty rusty bunk beds were crammed with restless passengers.
A dim kerosene lamp swung overhead, casting flickering yellow shadows across the mottled iron walls.
On the bottom bunk in the corner, Mary shivered under a thin blanket, her small shoulders trembling with each wave.
Shane knelt nearby, packing the last of his shirts into his canvas backpack.
The faint light revealed the streaks of tears still clinging to Mary's lashes. Shane looked at her carefully, noting a flicker of resilience in her blue eyes, despite the hardships of the crossing.
The long days at sea were relentless: brick-hard bread, foul-smelling toilets, overcrowded bunks, and endless queues. Even adults struggled to endure it. Shane had taken Mary to the deck for fresh air on previous nights, telling stories he "borrowed" from a future he had lived—a future that now felt like another lifetime. But tonight, he remained silent, letting small comforts speak louder than words.
From his backpack, Shane carefully retrieved a flat, square box wrapped in worn velvet. Inside lay a portable checkers set: a small luxury he had spotted at a trade stall the previous day and bought without hesitation.
Mary's face lit up instantly. "Checkers!" she whispered, her excitement barely contained.
Shane unfolded the linen board and arranged the polished oak pieces. The two siblings leaned close, the dim lamp casting elongated shadows on the bulkhead. For a few moments, the chaos of the ship, the smell, and the discomfort vanished.
Mary's small hand brushed a piece forward two extra squares, her ears perked with anticipation. Shane's corner of the mouth twitched almost imperceptibly, and he deliberately sacrificed a piece, allowing her to "win."
"I won!" Mary whispered triumphantly, raising her hands. Her red hair glinted in the flickering light. Shane glanced down at her, remembering the small, determined figure who had once scavenged coal in Dublin's ruins. He carefully returned the pieces to the box with a soft clack, letting her victory stand.
From the shadows, a greasy face appeared. Giovanni, an opportunistic Italian passenger, peeked in like a rat, a sleeping child draped across his shoulder.
"Hey there, Sean—I mean, Shane!" he whispered, producing three wrinkled apples from a faded cloth bag. "Top-grade goods! Just from the cold storage. Interested?"
Shane eyed him cautiously. The apples were a rare treat among the steerage passengers. He retrieved a small packet of brown sugar from a hidden compartment in his backpack—his "hard currency" for this journey.
"Two," he said, handing over the sugar.
Giovanni's eyes gleamed as he snatched the packet, shoving the apples toward Mary. She took one cautiously, and when she bit into it, her eyes lit up.
"It's so sweet!" she whispered, holding the apple toward Shane's mouth. Shane took a bite, savoring the simple pleasure. In that moment, the loneliness and exhaustion faded.
"Good?" Mary asked, juice glistening at the corner of her mouth. Shane ruffled her hair. "Very good," he replied softly.
Later, behind a thick steam pipe near the boiler room, Shane conducted a small, secret trade with Giovanni again: two bottles of whiskey for six dollars, their labels carefully removed. The air here was thick with heat, coal dust, and the deafening roar of machinery, perfect for hidden exchanges.
Giovanni stuffed the bottles into his suit lining, comically bulging as he disappeared into the shadows.