Fast-forward a few days to the middle of the Atlantic.

Once he got his sea legs, the constant rocking of the ocean became just an annoyance for Medic. Early on he noticed that The Handler also got a little green in the face a few times. In fact, the more he observed her the more she descended down to his own level of physical ineptitude.

She’d tripped gracelessly a few times over the bulkheads. She’d spilled food and drinks a couple of times. She’d once worn a shirt inside-out. And there was that bright orange discount price sticker stuck in her hair for a whole day. It made him comfortable enough to start calling her Handy in private. She took it with a sarcastic smile.

Then again, there was one time when Lukas the leisure-suited, gold-chained, slick-haired Lithuanian burst into their cabin with a rifle in one hand, near-empty bottle of liquor in the other, demanding to know in muddled English how she’d convinced him to take his ship to some island off Africa.