Amara pressed her stripes against the dark floor, pacing, pacing, pacing. Her claws clicked on the planks. A heavy boot thumped on the stairs above, and a cruel shadow blocked the light.
She curled into the corner and pressed her paws together. Her throat felt dry. The hold smelled of salt and old rope and cold iron.
A thin sliver of silver light appeared at the far end — a crack in the wood somewhere above. It fell across her front paws like a warm coin. She went very still. Her whiskers trembled.
Amara lowered her forehead to the splintered plank and began to hum, low and rumbling — the lullaby she used to sing. Each note vibrated through her chest and into the dark wood.
The hum grew steadier, softer. The lullaby wrapped around her like a blanket, and she stopped shaking.
She rested her chin on her paws. The thin silver line of moonlight stayed warm across her fur. The ship creaked onward through the black Pacific.
The ship groaned as black waves rolled past. She stayed curled in the dark hold, her song still rising, steady and low.
She is small. She is hungry. But she is still a mother, and the song keeps her going.