Roger
The moment our feet hit the warm, damp deck, I can feel the weight of darkness pressing upon us. The moon hovers above, a pale sliver in the sky, casting eerie shadows. A shiver runs down my spine as the wind murmurs through the deck like a chorus of disembodied voices.
"Stick to the shadows," I whisper. “Otherwise we’re dead.”
"Roger, focus," Molly hisses, her eyes locked on our surroundings. "We need to stay sharp."
"Right," I mutter, shaking off my unease and mentally berating myself for letting fear creep in. "Sharp as our box cutters."
She gasps as the realization sets in. “Are you drunk?”
I shrug. “Maybe a little.”
“Seriously?”
“What?” I say. “Who wants to die sober?”
“Well, I don’t want to die at all.”
“Whiskey lowers my inhibitions. I’m a better shot with a little w
