All tight topside. Time to check below. I fished the key ring out of my wallet, fumbling in the deeper shadow by the cabin door until I got it open. Spooky being on a strange boat alone. Stepping down into darkness, I grabbed a flashlight from the solar charging station just inside. The racks and bins of books leaped to life as I played the beam around, along the chest-high rows of double-hung windows, into suspicious corners. Flipping on the overheads, even with the blinds closed, could stir up unwanted attention from outside. And I shouldn’t run down the batteries, even after the full day of sun we’d just had.

I edged along the narrow center aisle, picking up stray books and magazines that had tumbled off their stacks. Everything felt thick with damp. I placed the escapees in more secure positions. Making myself useful, at least.

Two-thirds of the way forward, a sliding door separated the bookstore from the living quarters. Beyond was personal territory. I hesitated, then leaned into the handle. Locked. But Daniel had given me two keys. Didn’t that amount to permission to enter? An invitation to know him better? I slipped the second key into the lock. Inside, the flashlight reflected off a streamlined galley to one side and a basic shower and head on the other, clearly a retrofit with scavenged equipment, but clean and tight. Past them, a second slider, closed but not locked. I eased it aside, and because the utter darkness inside drained my nerve, I scrabbled around for a light switch. The first of three produced soft light from recessed fixtures on either side of a surprisingly comfy cabin. A desk set into storage lockers to port; to starboard, more lockers and a com station with the usual equipment and mare’s nest of manuals and charts. Under a pair of shuttered casement windows facing the bow deck like half-length French doors, a double berth stretched across the cabin’s width.

Suspended at the hatchway, I scrutinized the cabin for clues of the man who lived there. Okay, he didn’t really. He’d once mentioned a high-rise squat near the Souk, so probably his real life was there. This was more like a work space, compact and organized, with few of the personal touches you’d see in most boat cabins—or in a den bunk. No old family photos taped to the locker doors, no favorite quotes, no lists of daily chores stuck to the com station. But there were books—one crowded shelf above the desk, others stuck into any bit of available space, a pile at one end of the berth tucked up beside a small reading lamp. Good to see Daniel read books as well as sold them.