He didn’t need to read minds, their eyes said everything. There was only room for six in the life raft, and he was unlucky number seven.
Sure, leave him behind. Feeble… frail… dead weight…
But the old man wasn’t going away that easy.
He pulled a switchblade from his jacket pocket and placed the sharp end against the hard grey rubber of the boat. He made certain they all saw the blade flash in the blazing overhead sun.
The old man never said a word but didn’t need to. The message was clear.
Either he goes… or no one does.
The Weekday One Hundred 