Dear Peter,

Gah, I've screwed things up again.

My heart is beating so fast right now, Peter. I need to relax. But I CAN'T. Who could, when they're laying on their deathbed?!

Okay, okay. I'm not necessarily going to die. Just probably. Ugh, why why why.

For posterity, I'll write down what happened. It'll all seem cruelly ironic if I do die here in this drug-filled wood ribcage of a sickbay.

Last night, we were attacked by Swedish pirates. I'll spare you the gory details, but I went up against the captain. And hey, I won. We didn't lose anybody or any treasure. Who knows what would have happened if I hadn't fought him? He might have taken The Fina!

Hm. Robin told me not to, though. And he thinks he was right, because now I've got this goddamn wound in my side, and it's infected.

We still have a long way to go before we reach land, and even then, it's not like I can just walk into a hospital and make them take care of me. Plus, when they ask where I got a knife wound to the side, it's not like I can say, "Well, you see, I'm a pirate captain . . ."

So Morphie's trying to fix me up.

God, Peter. I trust him, but not that much. If Morphie is the only thing standing between the Grim Reaper and I, I'm good as dead.

Robin left. He's upset because I'm not talking to him. But honestly, what am I supposed to say? I'm digesting the information.

Heath's still here. If she was a good first mate, she'd go steer the ship, but she won't move. It's nice to have company, I guess. I'm not talking to her either, but Heather's okay with that. She's not good at talking. She's better at being there.

My fever is up to 107. My head feels like a pile of hot coals and it is not pleasant.

I'm sorry if this entry doesn't make much sense. I'm kinda delirious right now. Plus, Morphie's medicinal practices involve a lot of questionable drugs.

Poor Robin . . . I don't know what to do about him. Love is scary. I'm too tired to write about this right now.

If I die, then this is goodbye. Urgh, I sure hope this isn't how I'm gonna go out.

          I love you,

                    -Aunty Olive xoxox

XXX

Heather refused to cry. She maybe she would scream, she might choke, she might spit curses and insults at her torturer. But he would see no tears from her.

Peter didn't hold himself to the same standard. He fell apart the moment Mateo took out the hatchet.

They sat at the rickety wooden table, Mateo on one side, Heather and Peter on the other. He had unchained them, but neither tried to escape. Heather didn't have the energy to stand, anyway. Now, watching the thirteen year old boy beside her sob, her body felt like lead. It felt like a great exertion to reach over and take his hand under the table.

Mateo gave a small smile, running his finger over his weapon's thin blade. "What troubles you, chico?" he asked. "Is my table not to your liking?"

Too deep in sobs to answer, Peter squeezed Heather's hand, fingernails digging into her palm.

The man gave another smirk, lifting onto the table a large wicker basket. From it he produced a candlestick, matches, and a glass of water. The first two, he set down in front of Peter. He set the water beside his hatchet.

"Light us a candle, por favor."

Peter sniffed, fingers closing around Heather's. "Wh-what?"

"Candle," the man repeated. "Light it, chico."

Heather sighed, avoiding all eyes. He gave the boy's hand a quick squeeze before withdrawing hers, leaving her palm cold and coated in his sweat.

Peter swallowed hard, fumbling for the matchbox. He looked like hell. Scratches zig zagged across his face, blood coloring the pattern. Two purple circles encased both of his eyes, giving him a raccoon-ish look. Other than blood and bruises, his face had drained of color.

Mateo slammed his hand into the table, laughing when a startled Peter knocked the candlestick from the table. "Faster!" he shouted. "Or I'll light you on fire!"

Heather couldn't tell what time it was. Mateo had pinned a thick sheet of fabric over the porthole, cloaking the room in a dusky darkness. Peter scrambled to grab the candle from the floor, accidentally hitting his head on the table in his haste.

The man laughed louder. "Ah, chico, you are quite the clown, no?"

Peter said nothing. He touched his temple, wincing. Reaching again for the matchbox, he slowly slid open the cardboard drawer, careful not to upturn anything else. Heather watched him strike the match against the box, producing a small flame.

Mateo grinned, eyes following the fire as Peter transferred it to the candle wick. The kid put out the matchstick, setting it down on the table.

Heather growled. "Stop it with the games, Mateo," she demanded. Beside her, Peter continued to shake like a leave, eyes also glued to the fire. Poor kid, she thought. He'd never known pain. What a horrible shock this must be for him.

"Oh, this is no game," he said. His grin grew wider. He took the candle holder, pushing it to the center of the table. "This is life or death."

Peter gave an involuntary cry, slapping his hand over his mouth a moment later. He grabbed Heather's wrist under the table, refusing to let go.

Mateo only smirk. "Easy, chico. No es dificil. All you have to do is tell me where to find The Fina, and this will all be over."

It occurred to Heather that Mateo was not planning to release Peter, even if he did give an answer. A fist of panic seized her heart, stopping her breath for a moment. What a horrible Catch-22. The boy would either be tortured into a shred of a human, or he would be killed.

Or both.

"I d-don't k-know!" Peter cried. His voice shook so hard that his words hardly seemed more than animal noises.

Mateo shook his head, twisting the hatchet's handle in his fingers. "And Heather? Hermosa, I know you have a good heart. Will you not save this chico inocente? Is he not worthy to live on?"

She scowled, hoping he wouldn't hear the small tremor in her voice. "I don't know, Mateo! Find your son another goddamn birthday present, would you?"

He grimaced, locking eyes with her. "It's more than just a birthday present, chiquita."

"What is it, then?"

"One billion pesos and the soul of a pirate captain."