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Charlie had convinced himself that somehow, in Australia, where everything was upside down, there would be some kind of role reversal in which suddenly he, Charlie, would become the popular one, the funny one, the one everyone remembered, and Whiskey would be the one left on the sidelines. Part of him knew it was nothing but wishful thinking, but another part of him clung to it. It was what pulled him through those months before they left England, months in which most of his childhood was donated to charity and what was left was packed into cardboard boxes, ballast for the ship that would take them to Melbourne.
    x x x
    The Spirit of the Deep sailed from Southampton on a September day so glorious it made Charlie’s father wonder out loud why they were leaving.
    â€œIt’s like this every day in Australia,” their mother reminded them, but it did not make them feel any better as they stood on the deck, watching England slide away.
    â€œLet’s go and find our room—get settled before dinner,” their mother suggested.
    â€œThey’re not rooms, Elaine. They’re cabins,” Charlie’s father said.
    The stairwells and walkways were crowded with people, all heading in the same direction. Charlie traipsed behind his parents, thinking of the Titanic , wondering how they would ever find their way back to the deck if the ship were to sink.
    â€œWe must be beneath the waterline now,” Charlie’s father said excitedly when they reached C deck.
    â€œOne more floor to go!” their mother said in her fake cheerful voice.
    â€œOne more deck , Elaine, one more deck.”
    â€œI thought only the luggage was underwater,” Charlie muttered to Whiskey.
    â€œAnd the animals.” Whiskey smirked.
    â€œHere we are!” their mother said at last, opening the cabin door.
    Charlie peered inside. There were two sets of bunk beds separated by a miniature washbasin, and a tiny wardrobe between the end of the beds and the door. Charlie doubted whether there was enough space for all four of them to stand up simultaneously.
    Their father ducked through the door, closely followed by Whiskey. “Port or starboard, Whiskey?” he said, gesturing to the bunks.
    â€œWhich is which?” Whiskey asked, climbing up a little ladder to claim one of the top bunks.
    â€œHell if I know!”
    â€œI didn’t realize the windows would be covered up,” Charlie’s mother said, sitting on one of the bottom bunks.
    â€œPortholes,” Bill corrected her.
    â€œSince when do you know so much about boats?”
    â€œIt’s a ship, Elaine, not a boat.”
    â€œWhy couldn’t we fly to Melbourne, like normal people?” Whiskey said.
    â€œThis is the experience of a lifetime,” their mother said, as if she was quoting the brochure, but she did not sound entirely convinced.
    There was a knock at the door. A man in a burgundy uniform stepped into the already overcrowded cabin. “I’m your steward, Sanju,” he said, smiling. “I’m here to make your journey comfortable, so please don’t hesitate to ask me if there’s anything you need: sheets or towels, a cup of tea or coffee. I have a little galley halfway along this corridor. You’ll find me there most of the time. Do you have any questions so far?”
    â€œHow many passengers are on board, Sanju?” Charlie’s father asked immediately. Charlie couldn’t remember the last time he had seen his father so excited.
    â€œTwo thousand three hundred, sir, give or take a few.”
    â€œWhere’s the bathroom?” Charlie asked. He didn’t need to go to the bathroom, but he didn’t think he could stand to spend another minute crammed inside that cabin. He’d had enough of his family already. He wondered if it was possible to develop instantaneous claustrophobia.
    x x x
    Charlie was woken by the ship’s PA system, belting out a jaunty hornpipe. The