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Me, I’d tip me hat to her, offer a swig o’ rum if I had any left. Surprised me, she did, when she said she dreams o’ singin’. Voice like a siren, she reckons—how’s that fer a twist? Prostitute with pipes! Reckon she’d lure ships better’n me. “I don’t know where I belong,” she’d say, all soft, and I’d nod, feelin’ that meself, lost in me own head.

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