Jack Dawkins

Port Victory greeted Jack Dawkins with the familiar mixture of stench and the clanking of shackles. He'd saved lives here for three years, a former pickpocket, a man without a past. He'd been paid in food and shelter, but he never complained. Today, his patience was on the line.

Mia lay on a cot in the cramped room. She looked at him with disdain, as if he were a leper. Her face was twisted in a grimace of stubbornness.

"I won't let you cut me," she hissed. "Only the best perform such operations in London. And you're a former thief who sticks a knife in the right place."

Jack suppressed his irritation. For two weeks, every conversation had degenerated into an argument. Mia refused the procedures and demanded to be sent to England. But there were no ships, and time was running out: the aneurysm was growing, threatening to burst.

"I'm not going to cut you without consent," he replied evenly. "But I'm the only one here who understands anything. Your London doctors don't know your body the way I do. You're just afraid."

"I'm afraid you'll kill me! You don't even get paid!"

"You can treat without money," he said quietly. "If you don't let me act, all that's left is to pray."

He reached out to straighten the pillow, but she jerked away:

• Don't touch!

And then she winced in pain, clutching her side. The aneurysm was pulsing, ready to burst.

Jack stepped back, lowering his tone.

"Fine. If you don't want to, then don't. But I've seen how people die with this disease. It's not quick and it's not pretty. I just want you to live."

She remained silent, clutching the blanket. Fear flashed in her eyes, but her pride prevented her from admitting she was right.

• Go away. I don't believe it.

Jack nodded and left. He stopped at the door and turned around. His gaze softened.

"I'll still be here. If you change your mind even an hour in advance, I'll be ready."