27: Brice
Brice
The door wasn’t locked.
Brice stepped from the room, wearing the clothes Joy had returned, clean and fresh. He had his pack, too. No way was he leaving that behind.
There was a narrow corridor, the walls some kind of tough plastic, streaky grey. Other doors led off, and Brice reckoned these were the rest of the crew quarters. Third door along, as he’d been told, was a shower area—separate cubicles, with a drain in the middle of the floor. It wasn’t the open set-up he’d expected, but still didn’t give as much privacy as he would’ve liked.
He couldn’t imagine Storm using these facilities. She’d have a separate shower room, off her quarters.
He carried along the corridor, rocking with the swell of the water, listening to the creaking of the hull. And the noise. There w
