by Eloise CC Shepherd Wolfgang Hasselmann The Captain’s uniform is stained with coffee, or worse. It hangs on the back of the cabin door, empty and rigid. Heavy collars and cuffs. We don’t know where the Captain is. Not since we ran into trouble. The rumour is he undressed and, so unshelled, let himself fall over the side into the black rushing water. I strip and pull on his uniform. It closes over my tattoos. I find we are the same size. Every button does up. Guilt is eati