"You said you'd never leave."

"I'm not—"

"You need me, donnae you? More'n air, more'n water, more'n sunlight—you said that, remember?"

"I never said none of those things! You said that!"

"Then you donnae love me?"

"I never said that, either! What're you on about?"

"But it's true, innit? You wanna leave, you donnae love me, you donnae need me—you aren't denying it!"

"That's all I been doing!"

"You ain't said it!"

"None of that's true, Abby."

"…"

"Abby?"

"Put the bin away. Whenever you touch it, I dunnae, I think you're trying to leave. Donnae touch it."

"I'm not leaving, I told you. It reminds me…"

"…"

"…Fine. I…I donnae need it, long as I have you."

The second day out at sea brought sunlight. Actual bright, warm sunlight. Not a single cloud in the sky. Ford hadn't realized how much he missed it in the perpetual overcast of the north Atlantic. Despite the brilliance of the sun, he could feel the chill; a slight breeze slipped through his life vest, his coat, and the knits of his sweater, causing him to shudder. It actually felt nice.

Stan leaned against the railing beside him, occasionally huffing out a tune on his harmonica. He wasn't bad—not that he was good, either; rather, his playing (when it was playing and not just noise) was pleasantly passable, and was a nice break from the wind and the waves. Strangely, it was a talent that Ford never knew he had. When he'd asked, unfortunately, Stan could only shrug.

"You finally got your sunshine," Ford mused, taking a moment to glance up from his journal.

Stan nodded, smiling as he pulled the harmonica away from his face. "I can't remember the last time I was this happy to see the sun."

Ford considered the same thing. He tapped his pen against the corner of the journal. "Maybe in the Dimension of Solids." At his brother's prompting eyebrow raise, he explained. "Well, as you can probably guess by the name, everything in that dimension is a solid. The closest thing to a liquid had the consistency of gelatin—I 'drank' cherry Jell-O for the three days I spent there, it was awful. The ocean—good God, Stanley, the only other time I was ever so frustrated was in the M Dimension—the ocean was so choppy and I was nearly constantly sick. It didn't help that it was raining, either."

"How does it rain if everything is solid?"

"It rains Jell-O, Stanley, keep up." Ford shook his head, trying to ignore his brother's struggles not to burst into laughter. "As you can imagine, I hated it. Everything was awful. Two days of this, I was at the end of my rope, and finally we reached the shore. It was a desert, but it was dry land, and there was sunshine. Not a cloud in the sky. I could have cried from happiness."

Stan chuckled, restraining his amusement at his brother's misery. "Jesus, Sixer, you sure you're not making this up?"

"If only. The multiverse is infinitely vast and immensely bizarre." He glanced aside, watching his brother futz with his harmonica. "What about you? Any memories?"

"Now that you mention it, actually, yeah." A weird grin slanted his lip. "Kinda fuzzy, though."

"Tell me what you can remember. It'll help."

Stan nodded. "It sorta came back when you mentioned the desert—the bright light and the dust and the heat. I could've melted, it was so hot. It must've been summer: the sun was out for so long, like night wasn't a thing anymore."

"Do you remember where?"

"Southwest, somewhere. Maybe Arizona or New Mexico. It wasn't around the time you sent the postcard, though, I was younger. I was finally old enough to drink, so I could stop making phony I.D.s to get into bars." When he noticed Ford's dubious glance, he rolled his eyes. "It was a stressful time in my life, okay? Not like you haven't been carrying around a flask since you came back through the portal."

"It's not a flask—"

"That might work on the kids, Sixer, but I know what whiskey smells like." Stan ignored his brother's uncomfortable shift. "Anyway, I remember the I.D. situation because I was drunk for this. I got to the point where the bartender had me thrown out, and I wandered a bit. Didn't have a place to stay, y'know, and I figured I shouldn't be driving anywhere—not that I had any place to drive to, but, uh, yeah, I was wandering around town, and I came across what I thought was a dog. So, I went to pet it."

Ford pinched the bridge of his nose. "Stanley, no."

"Absolutely. It apparently was a coyote—I hadn't even seen one before that—and it was not happy that I bothered it." He laughed, both amused and a bit anxious as the rest of the memory filtered through his mind. "I must've spent half the night running from it, and then I passed out and didn't wake up for almost 36 hours. I don't think I slept as soundly as I did that night for years."

Mirroring Stan's expression, Ford forced a laugh. "At least you remembered, that's, uh, something." He waved off his own comment. "Something good, I mean; your memory is picking up extraordinarily quickly, especially with a lack of assistance."

"Sorry." Stan forced himself to smile. "Didn't think it was going to be a bad memory, though I guess I should have figured that as soon as I remembered I was drinking."

"Don't be ridiculous, Stanley; I'm sure you have to have some good memories from drinking."

"Eh, I'm all tapped out of memories at the moment." Snickering, Stan knocked on the side of his head. "Can't work the ol' brain too hard, right?"

"I suppose." Sighing, Ford returned to his journal, and scribbled a couple of notes. The shush of the wind and the waves and the scratching of the pen on paper filled the silence between them. Eventually, Stan made a curious noise.

"How far do you think we are? From the island?"

Ford blinked. "Not sure. Sean?"

There was no answer.

The twins turned toward the bow of the ship. Sitting with his legs dangling off the side, the Scotsman stared out toward the line where the sky met the sea, seemingly unaware that he'd been called. His stormy eyes were unfocused, distantly watching the sunlight glimmer on the water. He was completely still. Just him and the ocean.

"Sean?"

He remained motionless.

Stan coughed before raising his voice. "Sean!"

Sean jerked out of his reverie, one hand gripping his cap and the other, the rail. Once he remembered where he was and who called to him, he relaxed. A sheepish smile softened his features. "Sorry, didnae hear you."

"How're we doing?"

"Eh?"

"The island, kid, how're we doing?"

Sean's eyes returned to the horizon. Neither Stan nor Ford could quite tell if he was visibly searching or simply thinking. His nose twitched when he returned his attention to the twins. "Coupla hours. Before night."

Stan nodded, silently dismissing the Scotsman from the conversation. Sean took his leave by resituating and rolling up the sleeves of his too-big sweatshirt. When he glanced back at his brother, Stan was beaming.

"We're close," he commented happily. "You ready, Poindexter?"

Ford nodded, incapable of stopping his own excitement from creeping onto his face. "How do you think one would go about catching a fairy? Do you think they're smart enough to avoid butterfly nets?"

"They better not be; I don't think I could come up with a better plan." Musing to himself, Stan put his harmonica back to his lips. He played a few experimental notes before Ford absorbed himself in his journal, finishing the details on his sketch of their navigator.

Sean says we should be reaching our destination soon, though I'm unsure how he knows. Despite my nearly constant observation, I haven't noticed any out of the ordinary behavior that would indicate his navigational methods. He hasn't taken his eyes off the water since we left port, but for the moments he's spent helping with the ship or eating with Stanley and me.

That's not to say that I haven't noted any odd behavior. I've listed a few of the more interesting ones here:

His diet seems to consist of nearly exclusively fish, which neither is healthy nor explanatory of his (perhaps?) stunted growth. (My drawing is accurate to his appearance—he swears to be 23, but hardly looks older than Dipper and Mabel!)

He doesn't readily respond when Stanley or I call for him when he's navigating(?)—it's so difficult to tell what he's doing, precisely, when not speaking with us directly. He appears not to hear us without raised voices, though he hears Stan's harmonica acutely. Not sure if naturally hard of hearing or if his hearing has been impaired.

Apparently immune to the sub-Arctic chill that constantly has me wearing three coats. (Admittedly, I do take to chill easily, but even Stanley complains of the cold!) Sean only wears his threadbare sweatshirt—this morning, he even claimed to feel hot in the heated cabin. Initially I worried that he may have hypothermia, but his temperature was a healthy 98.0.

He sleeps sitting upright. I have no explanation for why, particularly in light of the fact that he will not sleep laying down.

I think he sleeps with his eyes open, but I haven't been able to confirm that suspicion.

By all observation, Sean is doing nothing to properly navigate us to our destination. When I asked, all he could say was that he felt it in one direction or another. Is he particularly attuned to anomalies or weirdness? Does he know where the island is offhand? Or is he making it up? Can't be sure until we reach the island.