Matt Hlinak - DoG

“Don’t listen to them, Culann,” Frank said. “You almost got your arm tore off to save fifteen minutes of extra work.”

“Thanks for the tip, but can you at least be happy for me that I finally did something right?”

“Christ, Culann. Don’t you realize that I’m the only one on this ship who actually cares if you die? Do not try to impress these assholes. Just keep doing a shitty job and come home in one piece.”

Culann slumped his shoulders and walked to the other end of the deck without responding. It was clear to him that he’d gotten on Frank’s nerves, maybe due to the close quarters or by simply invading this world that was so far from the one that Frank had escaped. Culann was grateful to Frank for helping him get out here, but Frank’s unwillingness to acknowledge his improvement stung. The whole purpose of this voyage was to become a new man or die trying, and for the first time, Culann believed he was going to succeed in leaving his old life behind. Why couldn’t Frank be happy for him?

He continued to improve over the next week. His stomach settled, and the soreness in his muscles solidified into strength. His hands sorted fish, untangled lines and hauled nets like they’d been doing it for years. Though Gus still slapped him around, he did so with less frequency and intensity than he had in the first week at sea.

Culann avoided Frank as much as was possible on the incapacious ship. He’d gotten over Frank’s harsh words, but didn’t want to annoy his cousin further. He instead spent most of his time with Worner, who seemed to view Culann as some sort of protégé who tagged along as Worner conducted his rounds. Worner was the ship’s chief medical officer by virtue of his combat medic experience in Vietnam. He had not undergone any medical training since the fall of Saigon, however, and he had nothing but a grocery store first-aid kit to work with. Nevertheless, the men showed great faith in his healing abilities as he bound wounds and dispensed aspirin.

“Hey, kid,” Worner said. “You ever see a splinter like this?”

A fat, filthy fisherman by the name of Garue sat on a crate with his palm upstretched. Culann crouched down next to Worner to examine it. The seas were rough, so Culann had to steady himself to take a good look. The splinter ran perfectly straight just under the surface of the skin for half-an-inch before disappearing into the inflamed meat of the man’s hand.

“It’s not wood,” Worner continued. “It’s a piece of steel cable. How do you suppose we get it out?”

“With tweezers?”

“Tweezers? Hah! I thought you were a schoolteacher. Didn’t you learn anything in science class? Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

Worner scurried below deck. Culann marveled at how spryly this man twice his age could move. Worner returned shortly with a strange tool. One end was a ring, which he wore around his finger. A short wire connected the ring to a stout copper stub that looked like a car’s cigarette lighter.

“Watch this.”

Worner held the sailor’s injured hand with his left hand. He pressed his thumb down on top of the splinter. He brought his right hand, which held the tool, to the entry hole. He slowly drew back his right hand, and the splinter slid out after it.

“It’s a magnet,” he proclaimed with a satisfied smile.

Garue rubbed his palm, then inspected the empty hole. He thanked Worner and went back to work.

“You see, kid, you got to stop and think. If I’d gone with the first thing that popped into my head, we would have torn the hell out of his hand trying to dig that thing out with tweezers, and he’d have probably gotten an infection. I know you think this place is all about toughness, but brains make a difference out here. You got more brains than anyone on this ship, so you just got to figure out how to apply them to new situations.”

“Thanks,” Culann replied. “I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

“Don’t mention it. Now let’s go give those dummies a hand with that net.”

Culann rushed over to help guide a fish-laden net back into the net drum. A wave splashed over the side and into his face just as he arrived. The end of the net started to tangle up again, so he leaned over the railing to straighten it out. He felt a hand grip the back of his belt.

“I told you not to do that anymore,” Frank said.

With Frank holding on to him, Culann could still reach the snarl and wouldn’t have to worry about falling over the edge. He tugged at the knot and almost had it loose.

“Goddamnit, Culann. Let go of the net.”

With one last tug, the tangle came free in Culann’s hands. He pulled his arms out, but his right hand caught in the net just as it reached the drum and began winding around.

The net pinned his hand against the drum, which revolved quickly away from him. The barnacle-encrusted net pressed against his flesh while the rotating drum stretched his arm up and back. The tendons of his shoulder muscles burned with strain. Frank leaped up onto Culann’s back and yanked his hand out with both arms. Culann was free, but the rescue had flayed off a piece of his palm. Blood dripped from his hand onto his jeans.

“I told you not to do that,” Frank said. “I told you not to!”

“Sorry, Frank,” Culann replied.

He cradled the wounded appendage to his chest. Blood pooled thick and dark in his palm. He tipped his hand down to allow the blood to pour onto the deck at his feet.

The cut stung from the saltwater crashing onto the deck. Worner bent down to examine it.

“You dumbshit.”

This appeared to be the extent of his diagnosis. Worner wrapped an entire roll of gauze around the hand.

“Shouldn’t you wash it first,” Culann asked.

“You just got ten gallons of water dumped on your head. Wound’s as clean as it’s going to get.”

Employing a now-familiar curative, Worner wrapped the whole thing in duct tape. Culann’s hand looked like it was encased in a silver boxing glove. A little blood still trickled out the side, but Worner seemed pleased with his work.

It didn’t take long for Gus to come tearing after Culann.

“Quit lying down on the job,” he roared before latching onto the greenhorn’s ear and yanking him to his feet.

The crew had just emptied the net onto the deck, and Culann ran over to help sort.

“Hey, greenhorn, can you give me a hand over here?” McGillicuddy called out from behind him.

Culann turned right into an airborne cod, which caught him flush on the chin. He tumbled over and broke his fall with his bad hand, sending pain zapping up his arm. A thirty-pound halibut twitched and slapped him in the face with its tail. He rolled across the writhing mass of fish, shoved himself back up to his feet with his good hand, and went back to work.

A few hours later, Culann’s hand throbbed in its filthy dressing, and he shivered despite the bleary sunlight warming the deck. He dropped to his knees and began sorting the next catch. The fish writhed beneath him, a seething sea of silver. He struggled to concentrate on the mind-numbing task at hand, and found himself instead scanning the array of fishfaces in front of him, marveling at how they resembled people he knew, if he looked closely enough. He caught a glimpse of an old neighbor here, his optometrist there, even the puckered lips of his junior high girlfriend. These fish weren’t so different from the people he’d known. What right did he have to pluck them from their home?

Culann asked them if they wanted to be caught, and they cried out in unison, No, no, let us go!

The fever broke two days later. Despite Worner’s ministrations, the cut in Culann’s hand had gotten infected. The Orthrus did not return to port to secure medical assistance, but it had hailed another vessel with an actual doctor on board. She cleaned the wound and pumped him full of antibiotics. The doctor told Frank that Culann was lucky the hand hadn’t needed to be amputated.