It took some maneuvering and wrangling to get Maisero onto the boat. A couple of the other sailors had to grapple for him to get him aboard, and eventually he fell over onto the wood and lay there. He was virtually non-responsive.

Balto sighed, rubbed his face with his hands and walked back into his cabin, dropping into his chair and looking at the map stretched over his desk. He had rushed back as quickly as he could after finding the wreckage at home, but slowed once he saw the planks of wood floating slowly towards him, far from shore. He could only be certain of the countless deaths that must have occurred then. He tried not to dwell on the faces he knew.

Of course, Maisero managed to survive. What a relief.

“Should we give him a room?” one of the crewmates said, poking his head past the door.

“Not yet,” Balto replied. “Watch him till he’s better, give him what he asks for, within reason, but keep him outside.”

The crewmate nodded and left.

It was a miracle that Maisero had survived. He’d check the field later to confirm it, but he didn’t really need to; only Maisero was left from that starting crop of villagers, when the battle had started. Even the boy, Balto thought.

And it was an even greater miracle that Maisero had found his way back to the ship, the only place where the lone survivor would be condemned to death.