Wheeling Gull Isle Hurry up tomorrow

“I-I’m n-not boy, mister,” he peeps. The dominance of the seaman had him huddled over again and shaking like a hapless fledgling, tail tucking protectively over his belly.

“I’m J-J-Judah,” he flinches, the cowardly quiver of his own voice humiliating in his ears.

His ears fall but he keeps his eyes forward, poking his head out of the hole to spy on the mysterious figure. He was like a creature from the sea with the same glass bones and wafer eyes. He gathers up all the courage he has to clog his throat with it.

“W-who are you?”