I also don’t know if that’s a rude question. Humans get offended about odd things, and I’m shite at figuring out what those are. Mum used to just tell me to lead with kindness, like that was going to be the solve-all for interacting with humans. But humans aren’t that nice. Why should I be nice back?

And anyway, even if it’s not offensive, I’m pretty sure that if I asked, he wouldn’t tell me. We’re not talking.

That’s fine by me though; I haven’t wanted to talk to him. I’ve got nothing to say. We don’t exactly have anything in common.

“It’s seventy pounds, mate,” the ferry worker says, nonplussed. He scratches idly at the collar of his orange hi-vis ferry vest. “No sure how much more clear I can be.”

Thomas throws me an exasperated expression and I hold back a shrug. I told him I’d deal with it, but he insisted on taking charge.

“Isn’t there some kind of local discount? I’m — we’re from Mab.”

“You’re from Mab but ye dinnae ken the price of the ferry?” The ferry worker pops the tab on a can of Irn Bru and takes a long sip. I’m thirsty as hell. Is it weird to ask if he has an extra? Is that a normal human thing, asking strangers for juice? I don’t think so. I wish Murray were here. He’s so good at reading human cues.

“Well it’s been a few years,” Thomas snaps, looking like he’s close to reaching across the window divider and slamming the ferry worker’s head into the desk. It would probably spill the Irn Bru. Maybe I could grab it before he dies. I bet he’s got some snacks in there as well. Maybe a bagged lunch.

“Just pay the man, yeah? The boat is leaving,” I urge. I’m starving and restless and we’ve a seven hour crossing ahead of us. I’m already shaking slightly, all the wee bumps on my arms raised up, and the cold jitters are just making my anger flare even faster.

“If you’ve a hundred and forty quid, by all means, chip in,” Thomas says to me, reaching for his wallet. “How did you get here anyway? Stow away?”

“No, I used this,” I say, slinging my rucksack to the ground and bending over to dig inside it. Most of the space is taken up by my seal pelt, but tucked into the side pocket is the card I took from Kit’s table when I left.

“Will this get us across?” I ask, sliding the blue plastic card over to the ferry worker.

NORTH SEA CROSSINGS, LTD.

Employee Fare Card

Macrae, Kit. Freight Assistant.

No one blinked when I flashed it on my trip over — just let me on with no questions asked. All the workers on that side knew I’m not Kit, but they didn’t care, so I’d planned to do the same thing this time. But Thomas had to be a gobshite about it.