Isle of the Lost, 2013
Thirteen-year-old Harry shambled across the beach, searching for anything of value that might have washed up after the storm. There, up ahead! Something dark and lumpy.
As Harry got closer, he was able to discern more specifics: A shiny buckle, floppy boots, raggedy clothes, beaded dreadlocks. It was an old seadog—a pirate—still breathing, but he seemed to be deeply asleep. Probably exhausted from fighting to stay alive in that storm.
Hopefully he would stay that way for a while.
Harry took the buckle first, tucking it into one of his many pockets. He left the pistol in the man's belt alone—it was the first gun he had ever seen on the Isle, and it would raise too many questions—and then continued his pat-down, collecting various odds and ends. Most would hopefully fetch a pretty penny, or they could be traded for favors. The man was starting to rouse when Harry discovered a peculiar box. It was a compass, broken, but perhaps Harry could threaten someone into fixing it…
Then Old Seadog stirred again, and Harry took that as his sign to skedaddle.