[Captain Riley and his former 2nd mate, the shade Charles, meet in a funeral parlour]

While Riley was still talking, Charles got up, walked over to the casket, and opened the lid. He stood a moment, looking in at — what, exactly, Riley wondered. Himself?

He reached inside, withdrew his own body’s right hand, and held it up. Drawing a knife from his robe, he sliced off three fingers. He did it without warning, without reverence, without ceremony.

Riley stopped. He couldn’t remember what he’d been saying.

“It’s not me anymore, Captain,” Charles said. “It never really was. This body, this shell” – waggling the maimed hand – “is as much Charles Wright as the captain’s berth aboard the Mandalay is Edward Riley.”

He popped a finger into his mouth, chewed for a moment, then spat pale bones into his hand. Dropping the bones into his pocket, he said, “It was comfortable while I was in it, but I’m never going back.” His smile never faltered. “And neither are you, unless you agree to my employer’s terms.”