As we move to the small foyer that encloses the stairs from the car deck to the first floor, we’re greeted by our gray-haired captain named Cathy who chats with Rupert for a moment and then promises fifty minutes from boarding to docking. Close enough to be convenient, but far enough that we won’t have squatters finding us in their dinghies. “Quietest ferry in operation, I promise!” she says, waving to return upstairs.
The space she vacates, however, is immediately occupied by three other humans in fine suits who’ve climbed out of the only other cars on the ferry. Number Two greets them, introduces me again—as if I need another introduction. I know these lawyers—the estate attorneys from last week, plus the guy I’d called about my criminal charges. Three attorneys, one Rupert, and me.
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