Storie followed Sam along the length of the ship. He pointed out the different masts, the different duties the men were performing. At the very back of the ship, things were a bit quieter. Storie liked this. She hadn't realized how much the chaos of the crew bothered her.

"Are you alright?" Storie asked as Sam took a moment to lean against the railing of the very last and highest deck, which he unflinchingly told her was called the poop deck. Storie made a mental note to only ever refer to it as "the last deck" if she needed to reference it.

Sam looked up at Storie for a moment, then shook his head. "No, lady."

"Will you seek medical attention when the journey is over?" Storie asked him. His injuries were ugly slashes upon his otherwise handsome face. It made her own skin ache to look at him.

"Oh," Sam said, shaking his head again. "Of course. But that's not... that's not what's buggin' me."

"Then what is bothering you?" Storie pressed.

Sam swallowed. He turned and looked down past the railings, toward the ocean. "D'you... d'you have the kind o' memories that feel like they choke you? That... poison ya, when you're reminded o' them?"

The question surprised Storie. She walked up to stand beside him against the railing, looking down at the water. The ocean was an ugly, silty gray compared to the blue of Sam's eyes.

"No," Storie said. "I am fortunate enough not to carry those myself. But Paloma and I surround ourselves with people who wake screaming from nightmares nearly every night. I understand that..." She trailed off, uncertain. What was she trying to say?

"I understand that some memories don't stay in the past, no matter how much you try to keep them there," she finished.

Sam looked up at her. "Why?"

Storie was confused. "Why what?"

"Why do you surround yourself with people like that?"

Storie considered this. "Because the only difference between them and myself is good luck."

This answered Sam's question. He looked back down at the water. But this wasn't the complete truth.

The truth is a powerful and dangerous thing. Sam could certainly wield it as a weapon against her. But she liked the man. She felt a certainty in her gut that he would protect her truths.

Paloma had described the sudden and chaotic way werewolves with the potential to be alphas found their partners. Storie had no alpha blood, but she couldn't help but wonder if some version of the same thing was happening to her.

"There is power in numbers. There is power in a pack," Storie told him. "My family has been werewolves for generations. I was born one. I collected a little group of people who needed a home. When the time came, I told them the truth about me. They asked for my gift. I gave it to them. They married, had children, made friends, brought more members. We grew and grew. My pack became a safe place for the haunted to take refuge. But we didn't feel... complete. Something was missing. I was not meant to lead. I did not want to make decisions for all of us. We attempted democracy, but it failed. We could never come to decisions."

Sam didn't look at Storie, but she knew he was listening.

"Then Paloma came. She is a special type of wolf. An alpha. Leadership is in her blood. She met my pack on the full moon on the forests surrounding Portland. She and her husband joined. We all realized very quickly that she was meant to lead. Seven years ago, I gave her the reins. We have never looked back." Storie realized she had begun rambling and cursed herself inwardly before focusing on her point. "Our pack is made of beautiful people who were once slaves and victims. Beaten women, scarred men and terrified children embrace the power of our gift. They turn away from their pasts and toward the moon. They live happily as one extended family, as loyal as can be. But try as we might, none of us can truly escape the past. So we mustn't try to escape it. We must lay down our load and ask others to help us carry it. We must embrace the memories that threaten to choke us and honor those we have lost instead of running from them."

Storie caught her breath. She realized that Paloma's inspirational way of speaking to the pack was rubbing off on her.

Sam looked up once again. "Are you inviting me?" he asked.

"We don't invite people," Storie replied. "They must ask."

Sam swallowed. "Then... let me ask ya one more thing, my sweet lady."

Storie waited. The sun slipped out from behind a cloud for a moment, casting a golden glow across the young man's face.

"Do you have a husband?" he asked breathlessly, a sliver of that goofy grin returning to his face.

Storie smiled. "How old are you, Sam?"

"Eighteen," he replied defensively.

"I am old enough to be your mother," Storie informed him.

Sam shrugged. "Ya don't look it."

Storie's well-defined manners prohibited her from engaging in his courting. She simply didn't know him well enough. "Sam, I don't even know your surname."

Sam gave her a real, proper grin. "Maldin. M'name's Sam Maldin."