Children are the most difficult passengers. Often, they fidget or they ask a thousand questions — most of which I cannot answer. A disturbing number can’t keep their eyes open, falling into a deep sleep of which I feel uncomfortable waking them from.

We’ll be in the boat, or gondola, or ferry, whatever you wish to call it, and I’ll be guiding it to shore. Then, typically, they will ask the usual child-like questions, “Where are we going?”, “Are we there yet?”, “Am I going to see my mommy and my daddy when we get there?”

I don’t know how to elegantly express I’m simply a means of transportation.

Most adults are quiet, peering over the edge, into the water. A few ask a couple questions.

But children are so different.

This one, I want to protect. From what, I don’t know exactly, but as I drag my oar through the river, he hums to himself quietly. He is small — so small — and yet his eyes are large and round. Curious. Yet he does not ask questions.

He tries to pull himself higher and each time, tumbles backward. If I could peel myself away from my responsibilities, I’d help. But I also hate how strongly I feel for this child.

I try not to get emotionally attached to passengers.

They’re not simply passengers. They’re so much more.

But I try to label them as such.

We all have our rules to keep everything in tact. Most of all, our sanity.

But this boy, humming, in my little dinghy, snuggling in the curve of the bow of my small little boat. My gondola. My ferry barely accommodating us. This boy? He holds my heart.

And I hate that he does.

He’s young. Maybe eight. And children are notoriously the most difficult passengers. Yet when he first gets on my ferry, he tries to introduce himself to me and I interrupt him, as nicely as I can, asking him not give me his name.

It makes it hard to stay professional.

At the end of our ride together, as I’m about to hoist him to shore, he says, “It was nice riding down the river with you. Can I tell you my name now?”

I offer him a sad smile, lifting him to the land. “I’d prefer you didn’t.”

He nods. “It’s just a job, huh, mister?”

“Ain’t that.”

He shoots me a quizzical glance. I don’t want to explain. Don’t get attached.

“Oh,” he exclaims. His big, blue eyes meet mine, appearing even wider. “Is your name Karen?”

I bite my tongue.

“That’s weird, no offense,” he continues, “that’s a girl’s name. Anyway… I found a gold coin. Don’t be grossed out, but I found it in my mouth. I want you to have it.”

He hands it to me. It’s not real gold — just foil. The foil isn’t soggy or peeling — just soft. So, I pocket it, and as I place it in my pocket, I watch him walk closer to the shore.

“Hey, kid,” I call.

He turns.

“My name isn’t Karen,” I tell him.

He stares at me, open-mouthed, as I peel apart the gold coin and pop the chocolate into my mouth. “It’s Charon, and we just crossed the River Styx. This candy was your entrance admittance into the afterlife.”

He continues staring, but as I bring my oar down into the river’s water to turn to get my next passenger, I hear the quiet plink, plink, plink of the boy tossing more chocolate gold coins into the water.

And all I know is I have never wanted to save a soul as badly as I’ve wanted to save his.

Isabelle Palerma

This short story is entirely my own content – no A.I. used to create this.

“chocolate coins for the ferryman.” (a prompt from Jerald Keith Wegehenkel.)