We are jammed into the Corsair ship like so much cargo.

Once a day, we are let out to roam the decks, our chains now an extension of our bodies.

I see familiar faces, but not my family. No laughing eyes the colour of the midnight sky; no face lighting up at seeing me. No small voice squealing, “Papa!” at my approach.

I delicately touch the raw scrapes on my hands, wondering what madness compelled me to try to jerk my wrists free of the manacles.

And yet after all we have been through, I find I still have hope.