Captain George wasn't surprised in the slightest by Henry's question.
Some guys joined a crab boat for one trip and ran screaming back to land the moment they touched dry ground. Others? They stuck with it. Made a career out of it, even if just for a few years to stack some cash while they were young and unbreakable.
"Here's how it's gonna work," George said, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he was already thinking ahead to the next trip. "Once I'm home, my wife'll handle rotating in the next crew. The Annie II will rest one day in port for refueling and maintenance then she's heading back out."
He gave Henry a measuring look.
"I don't know how long they'll be gone. Could be a week, maybe more. If you still wanna come with my crew, best bet is to show up here in about seven days and check in. Pay's the same as this run and no more rookie discount. You earned your stripes."
Henry nodded gratefully, but George wasn't finished.
"If you're feeling restless and wanna get back out sooner, get in touch with the Polish guy. He'll know who's looking for deckhands. I can probably find you another reliable boat.
"But for now? Your job is to rest. At least three days. Got that, kid?"
Henry nodded again, more solemnly this time. Even if he felt fine better than fine, really he wasn't about to argue with George. No captain in his right mind would take a guy back out who hadn't even changed socks since docking.
But George's tone shifted suddenly, sharpening.
"And while you're resting, I better not hear a damn thing about you picking up anything harder than a beer. I don't tolerate junkies on my boat. If you show up stoned, twitching, or even thinking about being a liability, you'll cool off in the Bering Sea before I ever let you on again. You read me?"
Henry raised both hands like he was facing down an arresting officer. "Loud and clear, boss. Crystal."
As a Kryptonian or whatever he really was Henry figured he was immune to most Earth-made substances anyway. But he wasn't eager to test the theory. Especially not with heroin or meth.
George stared at him for a beat longer, then clapped a hand on his shoulder, satisfied. "Good. Now take that check straight to the bank. I've seen too many dumbasses lose their pay after passing out drunk, soaking it through, or getting it lifted by some barfly with fast hands."
"Bank," Henry repeated, patting the pocket with the folded check. "Right. Is there a place I can cash it instead?"
George paused. "You don't have a bank account?"
The captain didn't press further, but the way his face pinched said he'd seen this before. Too many nameless kids with no paperwork, no trail. Just trying to exist between the cracks of the system.
"I'll get you help," George said. "I know a guy. He's a little rough around the edges, but he knows the ropes. He'll help you sort out the boring stuff bank account, ID, whatever else you're missing. Name's Tom. I'll give him a call. You just wait in the office over there."
"Appreciate it," Henry said sincerely. "Seriously."
George nodded once, then handed Henry a cup of coffee on his way out. "It's sludge. But it'll wake you up."
The moment the bitter brew hit Henry's tongue, his enhanced senses went into full panic mode. It tasted like ash, salt, and despair. But it sure as hell knocked the fog off his brain like someone had jumpstarted his nervous system with a car battery.
Ten minutes later, a dusty, light-brown land yacht from a bygone era rolled up to the office, tires crunching on gravel. It didn't park so much as lurch to a stop just outside the waiting area.
The passenger-side window creaked down, and a raspy voice barked: "Hey, kid! You Henry?"
Henry leaned forward. "Tom?"
"In the flesh. And lookin' good, I might add. You see another man around here with this much swagger driving a museum piece?"
Late fifties, maybe early sixties. Tan as a boot, hair a half-baked swirl of brown and silver, and sporting sunglasses that hadn't been fashionable since the Nixon era.
Henry didn't hesitate. He opened the door and slid into the passenger seat.
"You reek," Tom said immediately, nose wrinkling. "Smells like you marinated in crab guts and diesel fuel. Only thing worse I've smelled is expired herring."
Henry gave himself a sniff and winced. "In my defense, we lived in raincoats and oilskins for five days. The smell sort of soaks in."
Tom groaned and rolled down his own window, despite the cold. "Jesus wept. First stop my place. You need a shower before I let you near a camera."
"You want ID, right? Gotta look halfway human in the photo. Right now, you look like someone Homeland Security's already watching."
Henry caught his reflection in the rearview mirror and couldn't argue his hair was wild, his face scruffy, and the general vibe was vagabond in a wind tunnel.
"All right," he said. "Fair point. But I don't have any clean clothes."
"I've got spares," Tom said, already shifting into gear. "If you don't mind wearing something from the Reagan years, we're golden. If you want new clothes, we can swing by a store."
"Spare clothes are fine. I just need something not… crusty."
Tom snorted and peeled out of the lot.
As they drove, Tom kept the conversation moving.
"Here's the deal," he said. "I run a placement agency. Connect folks like you drifters, out-of-staters, whoever with crab boats that need bodies. I also help sort paperwork permits, social security, tax filings, whatever needs patching."
Henry glanced at him. "So you're… legit?"
"Strictly legit. You won't catch me running fake IDs or laundering cash. George vouched for you, so I'm helping. But fair warning this stuff isn't free. Filing fees, admin costs… you'll owe a little for the hassle. That cool?"
"Good man. And once it's done, you'll be able to walk into any bank, any hiring office, and not get tossed out the door."
Henry gave a faint smile. For someone trying to build a life from scratch, this felt like the first real step.
Maybe for the first time since waking up on that beach, things were starting to come together.
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