The Ferryman swigged back his coffee. At the far end of the wooden table where he sat, a seagull coveted his battered fish and fries.

David knew this had to be the Ferryman. Once the bus had reached its destination, only five passengers had remained. Each of these five now had a place. Three shuffled about the dock, arms folded or hands in pockets. David shared a table with the young lady who had sat next him on the bus.

Her name was Sharon. She and David had chatted briefly after he had awoken from his restless sleep, his headache gone. Sharon was on her way to work in a B&B for the summer. It was her cousin’s cousin’s place or something like that. David had said he thought he knew the place.

Near the fish’n’chips shack stood the fish’n’chips vendor and the bus driver, sharing a cigarette. A stove pipe pierced the structure’s roof, the air above it shimmering. A white cloud spewed from mouth of the stove pipe and and snaked downward. No one else was present.

The Ferryman hadn’t changed. He seemed eternal. David noted his galoshes and the agglomeration of keys attached to his hip. A lump formed in his throat.

Where David and his brothers lacked knowledge of the Ferryman, they more than made up for with their imaginations. If the Ferryman caught you alone on the ferry, he would take you do the depths of his ship. There, you and the other wayward children would spend your remaining days pumping oars. It somehow didn’t matter that no oars were ever visible from outside the ferry.

Being a little bit afraid of the Ferryman brought excitement to the 90-minute excursion across the fjord. The ferry had many spaces for a small boy to hide. You wanted to hide well enough to be the last to be found by your brothers. But you also didn’t want the Ferryman to be the one to find you. When Donnie was It, he had the habit of stomping back and forth near where he knew David to be hiding. Donnie would jingle change in his hand, and clear his throat. The jingle was meant to mimic the sound of the keys that always dangled from the Ferryman’s hip.

One time, David had hidden himself in a compartment on deck. It was damp, dark and cramped. He’d had to squat and hold the door shut with his hand. The rear of his jeans sucked up moisture from a hill of life jackets on the floor.

No one came.

David began to wonder if the stories about the Ferryman were true. Perhaps his brothers had already been imprisoned in the Rowing Room. How long could David remain consigned to this chamber, without food or water? He needed to pee.

He was now his brothers’ only hope of rescue. He would have to venture without, and steal way to the depths of the ship, unseen. There, he would release Donnie and Alex and the other lost souls.

A familiar stomping and rattling, just outside the door, popped him out of his reverie. Expecting it to be Donnie, he let the door open a crack and peeked outside.

To his horror, inches from his face, were the signature golashes of the Ferryman. The Ferryman’s fingers toyed with the cluster of keys dangling at his side. His back was turned. David pulled the cabinet door tightly shut, burying himself within the inky darkness.

An eternity passed. His bladder bursting, he opened the cabinet door a crack. A sliver of light invaded the chamber. David blinked, waited for his eyes to remember how to see. He pushed the door open slightly further and peered out onto the deck.

There stood Donnie and Alex. They were leaning against the outer rail, each drinking a bottle of pop.

“Hey, man! Have you been hiding this whole time?”

That had been David’s last game of hide and seek on the ferry. And he promised himself he would never again allow himself to be alone anywhere on that vessel.

But first he scurried to little boys’ room.

David sucked the last few drops from the water bottle. His eyes turned toward the fish’n’chips shack. Next to the shack was a water fountain. It was one of those concrete ones where the water gushed perpetually from a central spout. Drink from it and risk kissing everyone who had preceded you. One corner sported a splash of bird poop that David thought might have been left over from the last time he had visited this spot.

Sharon must have noticed all this. “Don’t drink the water,” she said, and produced a can of iced tea from her backpack. David received it relief. Hydration was necessary if he wanted to avoid a return of last night’s migraine.

The Ferryman set his cup on the table and became still, a frozen cameo. The eastern sun enveloped him from behind, like a halo.

Then he stood up, pushed his food toward the seagull, and marched toward the ferry.

David had known once they had disembarked the bus, they were now on Bent Fork time. If you had a watch, it was now irrelevent. Bent Fork was the name of the community along the northern coast of the fjord, to which they were all headed. But the name also referred to the area around the ferry dock and the intervening portion of the fjord itself. Bent Fork had three speeds: slow, slower and lightning.

The ferry ran on Bent Fork time. It left when it left. Like the Second Coming, you had to be ready for it. One poorly timed trip to the outhouse, and you might find yourself having to wait for the evening departure.

The Ferryman disappeared into the craft. After a moment, the ferry’s ghost appeared to have reentered her. The interior lit up, and the whine of the engines echoed across the fjord. (Or was it the wail of the lost souls whom the Ferryman had imprisoned in the lower depths?)

It was time to leave. Now.

David unzipped an outer pocket of his backpack, where he found the bill that he kept for his fare. He shouldered the backpack and grabbed the empty water bottle with his left hand. Once he picked up the iced tea, he would be out of appendages. David folded the bill and tucked it between his teeth. Taking up the iced tea in his right hand, he started for the ferry.