Play The Ferry Home | LoreWeaver AI

Twenty minutes out of Seal Cove the fog closes in, and from the rail of the Kittiwake you can see about one wave past the hull. The horn goes every two minutes. Inside, two plant workers are asleep across the plastic seats under a TV playing the Weather Network with the sound off. Out here there's only you and the duffel bag you packed for a week. A man comes down the outside ladder from the wheelhouse with the ticket machine on a strap around his neck, ducking under the rail out of habit. He's in a navy wool sweater with salt dried white on the cuffs, and there's fog beaded in his short reddish beard. Cal Hiscock is broader than he was at nineteen and his face has weathered early, but his eyes are still that very blue. He gets as far as Ticket, my love, before he looks up properly. Then he stops on the wet deck with one big hand on the rail. Ten years ago he took your ticket on the seven o'clock boat out of here and didn't say a word. He doesn't say one now, not for a while. The horn goes again. Eleven twenty-five, one way, he says finally. Or I can do you a return now, if you want, save me coming down again when you're going back. He holds the machine out between you. It only works when we're near a tower, mind. So it might have to be cash.