Retreating to the train depot a few paces away, I put my back to the wall and tie the ribbons on my black hat tight. Mrs. Sloane gave the hat to me, saying its short brim made her look like a garden hoe. I pull a tin of milk biscuits from my handbag and set the handbag on the ground, wishing the joy of its contents—mostly traveling supplies—to the beggar who finds it. I empty the tin along the wall, crushing the biscuits with my foot.

The dockworkers push the car in place, and the crewman waves his arms. “Stop. Set the brake! Lash it now. Smartly!”

Come on, biscuits, work your buttery charms soon.

The men work quickly, lashing the wheels to the platform.

Of course, when you need a rat, there is none to be found.

Panic jabs at my heart. I abandon my post, searching the dark corners of the quay for the loathsome creatures. After several minutes of scurrying around, I spot a couple of rats feasting on a sausage—at least I hope it’s a sausage. Something sour rises in my throat. I’ve done more repulsive things, but for the life of me, I can’t think of a single one.

Slowly, I lower myself, flexing my fingers. Before any more doubts seep in, I snatch a fat one by its scruff. “Got you.”

It wiggles and hisses, red eyes glaring, probably oozing poison and disease. Grimly, I hang on, my lips peeled in disgust. I hurry back toward the hoisting platform, casing the dock for a mark. I’ll have to find someone with an open purse or a large pocket. A woman with pin curls stares openmouthed at the foremast staking the ship’s bow, the hood of her old-fashioned cloak pulled back from her short neck.

Forgive me, ma’am, for what I’m about to do, and know that it is for a good cause.

I duck behind a bunch of men with long beards and burgundy caps heading her way. My rat jerks in my grasp. With light steps, I sneak up to the woman, and while saying a prayer, I release the rat into her open hood.

In four strides, I return to the platform, which has already started to rise.

“Stand back, folks.” The crewman walks the perimeter of the platform, enforcing a two-yard margin. If my rat doesn’t do his ratty thing soon, it will rise too high for me to scale.

The woman doesn’t scream. Have I chosen that one-in-a-million mark who isn’t scared by a rat down her back? Should I take a chance and climb on anyway, hoping to God that everyone blinks at the same time?

A scream that could separate the soul from one’s body tears through the crowd.

At last!

The crewman glances toward the woman and the commotion forming around her.