The reward for a long, hard night of work, he thought, was getting to see her. He spent hours every day slaving away in the bowels of the ship, feeding it, helping it to digest, and turn that fuel into movement. The work put knots in his back, sweat in his eyes, aches in his bones. The only relief, he'd learned, was Sara. Every morning, after his shift ended but before the sun rose, he snuck into the hall of first class cabins and crept to the end of the row. There the captain's beautiful daughter slept. At sixteen, she was womanly of body but girlish of face, and the combination warmed his heart and gut. Through the keyhole he could see her resting on her side, one hand tucked under her chin, curly lashes shielding eyes bluer than the seas on which they sailed. All he needed was ten minutes of her to recharge. Then he slipped back down to the workers' bunks and passed out for the few hours he was allowed. It was a tough life, but with her around, he'd found happiness.
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