The cool night slipped down into the boat's cabin as moonshine shown in through the windows. The boat rocked back and forth gently on the water, every now and then giving a quiet little creak. 

Isam's eyes flew open, his breath catching in his chest. He laid still in his nest of blankets for a while, listening. There was another creak. His hands trembled as he reached for his gun. There was someone on his boat. The man silently slipped from under his covers, crouching low as he slunk through the dark cabin towards the boat's hatch. He took a deep breath, steeling his nerved, then shoved the hatch open and clambered out. His gun was cocked and ready to face...no one. There was no one there. 

Isam was looking at nothing but an empty deck. He let out the breath he didn't know he had been holding and lowered his gun. It was just his mind playing tricks on him again. Ever since the war, he had been this way: pins and needles. Always looking over his shoulder. It was exhausting to constantly worry that someone was there, lurking in the shadows. The toll it took on the man showed. 

Since coming to America, Isam had slowly lost weight. He was a soldier, not a hunter. He lived on almost nothing but fish. His eyes had dark bags under them from the lack of sleep, and if one looked closely, they might even find a graying hair or two on his otherwise black head. Depression played a part as well. Isam was alone. He had no one to talk to about his problems, no one to trust, and no one to help him. He had lived the last two years in a strange country, doing his damnest to survive in almost complete isolation. Despite all of his efforts, he was still in pretty bent up shape.

Isam slunk back down into his hatch to lay down again. It was pointless; he wouldn't be able to sleep now. However, recently he had found that he hardly had the energy to do much else but lay around. His body hurt, his joints hurt, and he felt queasy all the time. When he took off his shirt, he looked as though he had been beaten: bruises of all shades and sizes marked his body as if he were made out of banana peal. Isam knew he was sick, but he didn't know what with. The best he could do was lay down and hope it got better, but it never did. 

The man crawled back into his bed, staring up at the ceiling, until the sun shown in through the windows. He got up when he heard birds landing on the deck of his boat, probably trying to steal the fish guts/bait that he had left out in a bucket last night. He groaned as he slowly got up and climbed back onto the desk. Isam shooed the birds away, too irritable and tired to even try catching one. He climbed over the cabin's roof and onto the bow to check his fishing lines. Out the multiple hooks he had through out, only one had a fish on it. A big, dark colored catfish flopped rebelliously as he pulled it onto the boat. It was a good two pounds; a decent sized fish for one man. Isam took it and tossed it into an old Budweiser cooler that he had found. He kept it full of river water to keep his fish alive until he felt like eating the. Right now, he wasn't very hungry. 

Isam hauled in his anchor and lifted his sails. Today, he would head up the river to an old boat dock to tie his boat. He needed to get off this damn thing for a while.