Ford sipped his coffee as he read a book in the afternoon sun. He was sitting in the kitchen and he readjusted his glasses as he started to discover who murdered the maid. He ran a spotted six-fingered hand through his gray-white hair, his appearance a true testament to his age. He was alone in the old shack in the middle of the woods, but not for long.

A knock came expectedly and, despite being a very old man, he moved swiftly up from his chair and to the front door without the assistance of a walking stick. When he opened it, he found a young woman with curly, frizzy, unruly hair and freckles all over her cheeks and nose. She wore an Arrows-n'-Daisies t-shirt underneath a suit jacket with ripped jeans and black high-heeled boots. The young woman looked a little frazzled and nervous, but smiled sweetly nonetheless. Her arms were full, carrying a bouquet of sunflowers and ferns, a journal, and a red short-handled purse, but she somehow managed to free a hand and she extended it to Ford for him to shake.

"Dr. Pines, I'm Elizabeth Martel. Thank you so much for having me."

"Please, the pleasure is all mine, my dear." Ford said politely and shook her hand. "Would you… care for some assistance?" He offered, having a hunch that she would deny his help, but still offered it regardless.

"Actually," Elizabeth said as she grabbed the bouquet of flowers and held them out to the old man. "You may take these to keep. They're for you."

Ford blinked like a confused owl and smiled as he took the sunflowers. "Thank you, Mrs. Martel. They're beautiful. Why don't you come in and make yourself at home while I put them in some water?"

Elizabeth nodded and followed him into the house. Ford gestured for her to sit in the living room and she obeyed. While the old man went off to put the flowers in a vase, Elizabeth sat on an old yellow-and-orange-plaid couch and observed the room. As a reporter and a writer, she was quite observant. She could tell that this room had been used for a long time and was loved and well cared for. It was cozy and a little messy, but not too much where it was overwhelming. Photos on the wall gave spoilers to a story she was about to hear.

"Would you care for a cup of coffee, Mrs. Martel?" Ford called from the kitchen.

"Please, just 'Liz' is okay, sir." Elizabeth called back as she blushed slightly. "And, no thank you, Dr. Pines."

"As appropriate as it is for you to call me 'Dr. Pines', 'Ford' will do just fine, my dear."

"Yes, sir."

Liz could have sworn she heard the old man chuckle from the other room and she blushed even more furiously. She sat her purse down by her feet and began to take notes in her journal to clear her spinning head, noting the circled-stains on the coffee table, the soothing smell of firewood, and the shelf that was cluttered with books and more photographs by a card table and a fish-tank. After only a sentence or two, however, Ford entered the room and sat on the other end of the couch.

"Now," He draped his left arm on the back of the couch to face the young woman. "You had some questions for me about the Titanic?"

Liz closed her journal and nodded. "Yes, sir. If I… Well, I was hoping you would tell me about your experience on the ship. I…" Liz blushed even deeper and looked away. Ford didn't press her to speak, rather he waited patiently for her to carry on the conversation. He was a kind man, a gentle man, so Liz felt safe to speak her mind. "... I heard that you knew a lot about what happened. That you were on that ship."

It all made sense as to why the woman was being so hesitant, wanting her answers but unwilling to bring up traumatizing feelings or memories in order to do so. Ford let out a soft "hm" under his breath and answered the young lady. "You're not wrong, Liz. We fought tooth and nail on the ship to live as it sunk, but not even half of the people on that ship lived. It was… horrible. Just horrible. I can remember every detail as if it happened yesterday."

"If it's too painful to talk about it, I understand," Liz said quickly. "I was only hoping that I might hear your story."

"No, no." Ford said with a hand raised and a soft smile. "Truth be told, I'm glad that you contacted me and wanted to hear about my experience. It's high time I told the world what I saw and did."

Liz opened her journal and poised her pen above the page to begin to take notes. Ford chuckled at seeing her so attentive. She reminded him of a younger version of himself. Back when his hair was brown and his skin was free of wrinkles and spots. Back when he felt weighed down by the world, until he met someone that made him feel free.

Two men glared at the women in front of them while the bartender watching from behind smiled with a smug grin behind his toothbrush mustache. The bartender had just endured a long morning of people getting drinks to celebrate the beautiful morning and the bright day ahead, and now he finally had a moment's peace so he could watch the unusual game of poker. Three men had just finished placing their bets. One man glared at his friend maliciously for betting on their third-class tickets on the best ship in the whole world to, arguably, the best country in the world. The two men were Swedish and had found themselves lucky as of late, having a trip to America waiting for them, but their luck was about to run out (or so they thought).

The only lady at the table freed a hand from her small collection of cards and took another puff from her cigarette to help her small amount of worry. She and her friend had bet on all they had, so it was all or nothing. She glanced over at the young man she had gotten to know last night and she saw a bead of sweat trickled down his forehead. His knee bounced rapidly under the table and he readjusted his glasses. The young woman, on the other hand, was calm. She had hissed to the man before placing bets, "Ya miss all the shots ya don't take, Fiddler." The young man only agreed to place the risky bets after the woman agreed to never call him "Fiddler" again. She could understand that; she hated it when people only addressed her as "Negro".

After the last few cards were exchanged and nothing else could change, the lady of the game said, "Alright, let's see whatcha got, gentlemen. Fiddleford?"

The young man threw his cards down and huffed out in frustration.

"Olaf?" The woman asked.

"Ingenting." The balding young man growled in Swedish when he showed his cards and he gulped down some beer to steady himself.

"Sven?"

The man didn't smile nor looked distraught. He simply laid down his cards and said in a low voice, "Two pair."

The dark-skinned female of the group breathed out deeply through the nose. She looked at Fiddleford and said, "Fidds, I'm sorry."

"Hephzibah," Fiddleford scolded. "That was everythang…"

"I'm sorry if ya were hopin to stay in Southampton for a few more days," Hephzibah went on and slammed her cards down, "CUZ WE'RE GOIN' TO AMERICA TODAY! FULL HOUSE, BOYS!"

Fiddleford snatched up the two tickets and kissed them as he jumped up and danced around. Hephzibah swept up the coins and her golden harmonica as she laughed.

Sven was shaking in rage. He couldn't punch the lady and the man was dancing out of his reach, in addition he couldn't be mad at the two for playing a game. However, he could be mad at the man who had bet away the trip to America that had cost him an arm and a leg, so he punched Olaf in the face so hard he fell out of his chair.

While Sven swore loudly in Swedish, Hephzibah and Fiddleford gathered their things and ran out to the street. They had both stayed at a hotel and bar by the docks. Hephzibah had intended on going to America to find a better life, but had no idea how. Maybe work until she could afford a cheap ticket on a different ship? Fiddleford was from America and had visited Britain for his education. He was going back home in a few days anyhow, but now he was going on the great RMS Titanic. He had had a feeling in his gut last night that this woman was something special.

Pushing and shoving past the crowd with the tickets in Fiddleford's hand and their things on their backs, the two ran for the great ship, which was leaving too soon for comfort. The man with light-brown hair and glasses was having a hard time catching up with the woman with black dreadlocks that were tied up by a piece of cloth in a high-ponytail. They sped past a long line of first-class passengers exiting their rich carriages and so forth, not caring who they bothered or who they pushed. When they reached the gate, Fiddleford vouched for Hephzibah, saying that they were both American and lice-free, and they both entered.

They ran into the ship as Hephzibah yelled, "We're the luckiest bitches in the world, ya know that?!"

Fiddleford laughed over her joy and led the way up to the dock to wave goodbye to all the people less fortunate than them.

Stanford made sure his gloves were on good and snug and that his cuffs were crisp before letting himself out of the car. The five-fingered gloves didn't hide the fact that he had six fingers on each hand to the observant, but the article of clothing helped to make it less noticeable. Once Stanford stepped out he was hit with that familiar scent of saltwater and he breathed in deeply. It was a nice smell that made him think of home, back in New Jersey with Ma and Sherman, where they were waiting for the three men to return.

Stanley, his twin brother, stepped out and whistled at the huge boat they were about to board. "Holy Moses! That thing is huge!"

"Almost as big as your ego, Stanley." Stanford teased lightly as he looked at the Titanic.

Their father also observed the ship as he paid the cab driver the fee and joined his sons. "She's quite a thing of beauty. The largest moving object ever made by man and the most luxurious. On her, we'll be living like kings!"

"Well then what are we waiting for?!" Stanley said excitedly, and threw the trunk open, grabbed his suitcase, and nearly ran for the dock like a child.

Stanford smiled pleasantly as he grabbed his suitcase. He also had a weak spot for the boats and the sea. To sail the Atlantic once more would definitely help take his mind off of his future. With Pa behind him, he followed his brother to the Ship of Dreams and tried to remain grateful that not only was he about to ride on the unsinkable ship, but he about to ride it with a first class ticket that his trip to an interested university had earned him.

The Pines weren't royalty or millionaires, but thanks to Stanford they may as well be. His immense intelligence and outstanding academic-work had caught the attention of a supreme college in England, which Stanford had just visited with Stanley and Pa. Stanley almost didn't go, but Stanford managed to convince him to join him on the trip by pointing out the fact that he would get to travel across the Atlantic and meet pretty European ladies. Having his twin made the expedition a little more bearable and Stanford was grateful that Stanley tolerated it in order to be there for his brother.

The three Pines men stepped onto the boat and showed their tickets. Once in the main lobby and underneath a beautiful dome, Stanley already caught the eye of several young ladies dressed in their finest, blushing and giggling behind white-gloved hands and fans. Stanley wiggled his eyebrows and messed with his red tie a bit before introducing himself, leaving Stanford to roll his eyes and follow his father to their living quarters.

It was late into the second day of sailing. Actually, it was evening now. Stanford had a telescope out on deck of the RMS Titanic, stargazing and recording what he saw on a star-map, which he would later paste into his journal. For now, he wrapped himself tightly in his sweater-vest and trenchcoat, glad to be rid of his suit, and studied the stars in peace. However, truth be told, he wasn't at peace. When he tore his eyes away from the heavens above to write, his polydactyl hand froze and his eyes slowly averted from his work to the edge of the ship.

He could hear the waves crashing against the huge boat as it sailed for New York City. He slowly, almost like his body was not his own, closed his journal, folding the star-map, sat the book down by the telescope on a bench, and walked towards the edge of the Titanic. Before he knew it, his hands had curled around the white rail and he peered down at the cold sea water below.

Stanford hadn't felt like himself in months. First it had been a lack of excitement over he and his brother's own boat, the Stan O' War, then a lack of excitement for anything, and then a sinking feeling that no one could explain or pull him out from. Not even Stanley. This wasn't sadness or boredom, Stanford knew what those felt like. No, this feeling was suffocating. He was cracking under the pressure his father put him under. He was bleeding from the cuts the world gave him for being different. The voices he had heard as a child plagued him so much, too much, he heard them even when he was alone, especially when he was alone. That everyone would be better off if he was dead, that he would be better off dead. He was trapped, trapped, trapped! But maybe he could be free. Maybe there was a reason he had always been drawn to the sea.

He stood there for several minutes until he started to climb, stepping onto a rail and then swinging a leg over the fence. He swung the other leg over and stood on the edge of the boat. With both hands holding the rail, he peered over into the sea, knowing that if he lets go he would die. It was a thrilling, bone-chilling feeling to be so close to death. One wrong more and it was all over.

The fear of death seemed to be snapping Stanford scrambled thoughts back into place. No. No, he wouldn't jump. He couldn't jump. If he was going to die, best not in such a painful manner. And he couldn't leave Stanley like this. He couldn't. Stanford was about to climb back over and resume his studies, but he was mesmerized by the ocean. It truly was beautiful and something to behold. He took in a deep breath, the smell of the saltwater hugging his soul with nostalgia, and he let the wind play with his fluffy brown hair to help soothe him. He was too at peace to ruin it with death.

Hephzibah, meanwhile, had been looking for a comfortable spot to smoke, a nice place to lay and gaze at the stars. She had wandered to the back of the boat when she spotted a young white man hanging off the railing. Her heart dropped as she recognized what he was doing. Having too much experience with this sort of thing, she slowly walked towards him and cleared her throat as to not startle him and make him let go accidentally.

Stanford turned his head and his eyes widened at the unusual person that stood about ten feet away from him. A young woman, about his age, with one of the darkest shades of skin he had ever seen. She had dreadlocks, tied up in a high-ponytail, that went down past her shoulders, and she wore dirty clothes of a puffy white shirt, brown pants, a black shawl around her waist, and a black coat with a pair of black boots. She didn't look scared, but apprehensive; she looked at Stanford like he was wounded puppy. Humiliation flooded Stanford at realizing that this lady, this stranger, this Negro, had seen him at his lowest point and toying with a cowardly act. If he had any self respect he'd let go right now.

"Don't let go." She spoke softly.

Stanford glared at her. "Don't be stupid. I won't let go." He said indignantly. As he said it, he truly believed it. The idea had left him minutes ago. No, he wouldn't jump. He couldn't jump.

"I know ya won't." The woman said matter-of-factly. "If ya were gonna ya'd've done it by now. So, since I've got nothin' better to do, mind walkin' me through your thought process?"

Stanford looked away from the young woman. Who did she think she was?! Talking to him like this, not respecting his wishes, humiliating him. He racked his brain for a good excuse to be on the other side of the railing, wishing he was as good as a liar as his brother, until he spat out something that wasn't exactly a lie. "I'm simply observing the ocean."

"Ah." The woman walked closer with her hands in her pockets to shield them from the bitter cold. "Kinda risky, isn't it?"

"Doesn't everything in life involve a little risk to some extent?" Stanford questioned.

The woman let out a small laugh and smiled. "Truer words've never been spoken." She pulled out a cigarette from her pocket and held it out to the young man. "Want one?"

Stanford stared at her. What on Earth was she doing? Why was she offering him a cigarette like they were sitting in a cozy bar? "No, thank you." He said, his voice almost as cold as the sea below them.

The woman shrugged, pocketed her cigarette, and started to take off her coat.

"What are you doing now?" Stanford barked at her.

"Gettin' ready to jump in after ya." The woman said plainly.

"What?!"

"Well it's clear to me that I'm gonna have to jump in after ya if ya accidentally fall while observin' the ocean n' all." The woman tossed her coat down on a nearby bench, close to where Stanford's telescope stood.

"You could die!" Stanford scolded.

"Imma good swimmer." The woman said casually as she started to untie one shoe.

"The fall alone could kill you!"

"It'll hurt like Hell, but not as much as the water itself. Bet it's freezin'." She speculated as she slipped off the first shoe

Stanford looked down at the sea and nodded in agreement. "Once, when I was a child, a wave crashed into me in the winter while playing with my brother along the shores of a beach. Water that cold… it hits you like a thousand knives. You can't breathe or think of anything but the pain you're in." He thought about how Stanley had helped him walk home after that while snow trickled down on them. He thought of Stanley. He couldn't leave his twin like this. There was no way he was going to jump. He would never jump! He just had a moment of weakness and some woman had caught him in the worst possible moment, that's all!

"Now I'm definitely not lookin' forward to jumpin' in after ya." The woman chuckled as she took off the other shoe. "But I don't have a choice. But ya do."

"You're insane!" Stanford yelled, his eyes tightly shut, hoping that the next time he opened his eyes the woman would be gone.

"Sure I am, what's your point?" The woman asked light-heartedly and then held out her hand. "Now, c'mon. Take my hand. I'd feel a lot better if ya were observin' from the other side of the rail."

Stanford opened his eyes and looked down at her outstretched hand that was by his left side. "You don't want me to do that." He said darkly.

"To be perfectly honest, at the moment, that's all I want." It was her tone. For the first time during the whole conversation, she wasn't chuckling or care-free or peaceful. She sounded stressed.

Stanford would have climbed back onto the ship without the woman's presence just fine. He wouldn't jump. He couldn't jump. Still, if taking her hand would give this poor Negro woman some reassurance that he wouldn't jump… Stanford took her hand and allowed her to help him turn around. He faced her fully and when she smiled, he was surprised by how beautiful she looked.

"Thanks." She said and squeezed his hand. "I'm Hephzibah Cece."

"Stanford Pines."

Hephzibah looked down at his hand for a moment and found that it had six fingers. A quick glance at his other hand and she saw that it also had an extra finger.

Stanford caught her looking at his birth-defect and he lowered his head. "I told you you wouldn't want to take my hand."

Hephzibah surprised Stanford by giving his hand another squeeze and taking his other hand. "With all due respect, Mr. Pines, I've seen weirder."

Stanford looked back up at her and was in awe as she slowly pulled him back onto shore and he swung a leg at a time back on the other side. After a few steps away from the edge of the Titanic, they let go of each other's hands.

Hephzibah picked up her coat, which had been by the telescope, and asked, "Is the telescope yours?"

Stanford pocketed his hands in his trenchcoat and nodded. "Before I was mesmerized by the sea, I was stargazing."

"I see." Hephzibah put on her coat and then picked up a boot and began to tie it on. "I used to stargaze with my grandfather back in Ireland. Course, we didn't know the actual names of the stars, so we'd play a game n' rename 'em a million times."

Stanford chuckled at the idea. He looked up at the clear night and awed at the stars. He caught sight of Saturn and asked, "Have you ever observed the night sky through a telescope?"

Hephzibah shook her head.

"Do you want to?"

Hephzibah nodded and allowed Stanford to teach her how to use the tool so she could see the planets and the moon. In return, she shared the made-up nicknames she had given the constellations.