<h2>July 30</h2>


    Derrel stood by the ship’s railing and looked out at strangely thick fog that enveloped the ship. Two more crew members disappeared today. Only he, the cook, the captain, and the first mate were left.


    “Only a few days more, and we’ll reach England,” thought Derrel. “I just need to survive.”


    <h2> </h2>


    <h2>August 1</h2>


    The fog was so thick for the last two days that the ship couldn’t find the English Channel. No wind filled the sails. The air was still, and the ship stagnated in the waters.


    Derrel looked up at the sails. The sails should be taken down, but if he needed to put them back up again, the fog would make it impossible to do so. The ship was drifting, and Derrel felt as if they were helplessly drifting to their death.


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    “I’m a sailor. This is what I do,” thought Derrel. “And this is what I’ll do until I die.”


    He went downstairs to the kitchen to get dinner. The kitchen was in a disarray. Pots were unwashed and stacked haphazardly in the sink. Leftover ingredients were strewn across the table. A soup was on the stove, only half cooked.


    “Yodny! Yodny Mikhailov!” Derrel shouted. “Where are you?!”


    He ran into the cook’s office. Not there.


    He ran into the pantry. No.


    Dish room. No.


    Cleaning supplies room. No.


    Derrel pounded the wall.


    “No. Not Yodny too,” thought Derrel.


    He collapsed against the wall and slowly slid to the floor. Now it was just him, the captain, and the first mate.