I dressed in my Lindy-provided blue sweater. There was no name on the front of the beautifully knit Canadian wool, just an embroidered representation of the ship over the left breast, and the white stitched letters, “STAFF” on the back. The sweaters were highly prized by the passengers, as they were not for sale on board. It was rumored that Don sold his at the end of every trip. I liked mine, and would keep it, if I could. I checked myself in the mirror. I touched my latest contusion, which had appeared just over my right eye. It had been late in blooming, after my tussle with the burly supervisor on St. Paul. The bruise made me look like an aging Dennis the Menace, but that could not be helped. Don entered my room.