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There was no fresh water on this godforsaken island.
Roach shouldn’t have gotten off the boat to take a long piss, that’s for sure. Just his luck that the ship set sail without him back onboard.
Even worse, the few tropical plants that grew on this miserable little patch of temporary land—it was barely a sandbar, let alone a barrier island—had no foliage on them. One would think, “Ooh, a shady banana leaf would be nice in this situation,” but no. Every plant remnant—stem, leaf, flower, everything—was bone dry, brown, and curled up.
It’s all rubbish! Utterly useless rubbish!
Roach couldn’t even use the stuff to weave himself a hat or mat to use while he waited for The Revenge ’s return. They would have to eventually notice that their resident knife sharpener, coconut gatherer, and non-citrusy orange cake baker was missing.
The sun beat down furiously upon the top of his head. Roach squinted up into the cloudless blue sky above him. A silver gull circled him high above. He gave an irritated sigh.
Charming.
Maybe Karl or Olivia was on the case. With any luck, they’d relay his whereabouts to Buttons soon enough.
Until then…a little nap would hurt.
Roach scooted down onto the wet sand. He laid down just far enough into the surf so that the cool water reached his ankles, but not far enough that a shark or siren would be tempted to drag him into the depths. Roach closed his eyes and let himself doze.
It could’ve been five minutes, or it could’ve been five hours. Either way, Roach was awakened by a tap to his shoulder. He jumped up with a brandished knife to find a tall man—taller than almost any man he’d ever met—towering over him. The man was dressed in a splendid navy coat and an undershirt with enough ruffles to rival the captain’s.
“You! Sneaking up on sleeping folks, eh?”
The stranger threw his hands up in the air in surrender to the knife’s blade tip pressed over his heart.
“Where’re your manners?” Roach grouched as his eyes went from the man’s barrel chest to his head. “Certainly your mother…”
Roach trailed off as he realized something quite important. This man had a hook for a head. The same type of hook that the occasional pirate got to replace a missing hand.
Huh. How ‘bout that.
Roach seen many things on his travels, but this particular character was a first.
It seems like the captain wasn’t lying after all about a bloke like this existing.
When Roach decided that this hook-headed man was unarmed and couldn’t be much of a threat without eyes to see or ears to hear with, he sheathed his knife.
The giant visibly relaxed. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, which he used to dab at his sweating neck.
“So…Mr. Hook. What’s your deal?”
When Mr. Hook didn’t respond, Roach grabbed the giant’s hand, pressed his mouth to the giant’s palm, and repeated the question. It was a trick that Roach had used with his aging grandmother, and it seemed to work here too. The stranger’s body language brightened as he pointed to Roach before he turned and gestured behind him.
There was a tiny makeshift shaded area about three meters away. Underneath a striped red and white canvas propped up by sun-baked sticks, there was a spread picnic blanket. Two iced and plated slices of yellow cake and a stoneware jar of drink sat on top of the woven blanket.
Is…is that lemon cake?
Roach’s stomach grumbled.
“For me?” Roach asked into the stranger’s hand.
The giant nodded his prosthetic hook head vigorously. Roach hesitated.
“Oh…how nice. Well, thank you. Let’s eat, I guess,” Rich finally spoke into the man’s hand.
Would Roach be eating the stranger’s slice of cake too, for…obvious reasons? As his stomach growled, he hoped that would be the case.
Mr. Hook gave a thumbs up.