I allowed him to help me stand. I leaned heavily on his arm, feigning a weakness I did not feel. As his grip tightened on my bicep, I felt the tension in his fingers. He wasn’t guiding me; he was measuring me. He was calculating the weight he would have to move.

“Alright, Greg,” I murmured. “Show me the moon.”

We moved slowly towards the aft deck. I made a show of shuffling my feet, the rubber tips of my cane tapping a slow, erratic rhythm on the teak floorboards. The night air hit us, cool and salty. The yacht was cruising on autopilot, a ghost ship in the vast emptiness of the sea.

Greg guided me not to the main seating area, but further back, towards a secluded section of the stern. I knew this spot well. It was a blind spot for the security cameras, something I had noted during the last refit but hadn’t corrected. It seemed Greg had been doing his homework too.