Old George wasn't surprised by Henry's thoughts.
While many novices on crab boats only go out for one trip before quitting, some adapt quickly and turn the job into a full-time gig. Even if they don't make it a lifelong career, earning a decent chunk of change while they're still young is a smart move.
George went on to talk about his own plans. "When I get back, my wife's setting up another crew. The Annie II will dock for a day—restock supplies, get a few repairs done—and then she's heading back out."
"I can't say exactly how long it'll take them to return, but if you're still interested in working on my boat, come back to the port in about a week, just to be safe. The pay will be the same, and I won't treat you like a greenhorn anymore."
He added, "If you're itching to get back out sooner, have the Polish guy contact me. I'll help you find a reliable boat. But for now, your job is to get some rest. Don't even think about heading back out for at least three days. Got that, kid?"
Of course, Henry wasn't about to claim he was ready to go right back to sea. Even if he felt fine, no captain would take someone who had just gotten off a boat and shove them back into rough waters. He nodded obediently.
But George gave him a stern warning. "And by rest, I mean real rest. I don't take junkies on my boat. An addict onboard is just a disaster waiting to happen. The only help I'll offer someone like that is a dip in the Bering Sea to clear their head. You hear what I'm saying?"
Raising his hands in surrender, Henry replied, "Understood, boss. I'll do exactly as you say."
As a Kryptonian who barely felt anything from whiskey, Henry doubted those powders would have any effect on him either. But he wasn't interested in testing the theory.
Seeing Henry's sincere expression, George patted him on the shoulder, clearly satisfied. "Deposit your check as soon as you can. I've seen too many guys pass out drunk in bars, checks ruined or stolen. If the thief's fast enough, not even I can help you."
"The bank," Henry murmured, tapping the pocket where he'd tucked the check. "Is there a place nearby to cash it?"
"Don't tell me you don't even have a bank account," George sighed, rubbing his forehead. He didn't ask for Henry's full story, but he'd seen enough people to get a rough idea.
"I'll find someone to help. There's an old guy who's good at handling this kind of thing. You can ask him questions. I'll send you back to Old John's bar after. Sound good?"
"You're a huge help, boss," Henry said gratefully. It was better to have someone guide him than wander around cluelessly.
George gave another firm pat on Henry's shoulder. "If you're good, come with me to the port management office. I'll make a phone call, and you can wait there."
"Alright. I'll follow your arrangements," Henry agreed.
The port management office wasn't fancy—just a small building—but there were a few chairs and tables where people could rest. George used the public phone, dialed a number, explained the situation, and hung up.
Before leaving, he bought Henry a cup of coffee from a nearby kiosk.
"That old guy should be here in about ten minutes. Name's Tom. I told him what you look like and filled him in. You two take it from there, alright?"
Taking the coffee, Henry nodded. "Thanks, boss."
"Wrap things up early and get some rest. After a trip on a crab boat, it's hard to bounce back in under three days. The older you get, the longer it takes. I can't be running off to bars like you young punks anymore."
With that sarcastic farewell, George left. He still had to drive home and was clearly running out of energy.
The coffee was awful. Henry nearly spat it out after the first sip. But maybe that bitterness was the point—it jolted him awake with unnatural efficiency. With his super-senses, it was like rocket fuel. He felt like he could fly straight into orbit.
A short while later, a light brown vintage car pulled up. Henry had only seen cars like this in old movies. Instead of parking, the driver rolled down the passenger window next to the rest area.
"Hey, kid! Yeah, you! Get in. George sent me," the man shouted.
"Tom?" Henry asked, standing and approaching the car.
"Yup, that's me. Where else are you gonna find a Tom this handsome?"
The driver was a very distinctive-looking older white man with half-brown, half-silver hair, wearing a loud pair of sunglasses that didn't match the weather or decade.
Henry wasn't worried about foul play, so he opened the passenger door and climbed in.
But before he could even sit properly, Tom winced. "Jeez, you smell like pickled cabbage. You're only slightly less offensive than a can of surströmming."
"Is it that bad?" Henry sniffed himself and offered, "Well, on the boat we're always in rain gear or heavy coats. Kinda hard to stay fresh."
"Spare me the excuses," Tom groaned, rolling down the window despite the cold breeze. "We're going to my place. You need a shower."
"Is that really necessary?"
"George said you might need to get some documents. You gonna take an ID photo looking like a soggy raccoon?"
Henry glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror. His hair was a mess, nearly covering his eyes, and he had a scruffy layer of stubble. Not exactly a winning look for government documents.
"Alright," he relented. "I do look like a mess. But I don't have any clothes to change into."
"If you don't mind some old threads, I've got clean ones. Otherwise, we can hit a store."
"Nah, old's fine. Just something dry."
"Great. Let's roll." Tom hit the gas, and the car sped off like it was trying to time-travel.
As they drove, Tom kept chatting. "First stop: my place. Clean you up, snap a photo. Then we'll head to the bank to get your money sorted. Any questions?"
"You can handle documents here? Like… any kind?"
Tom nodded. "I'm a labor broker. I help out-of-towners get work permits, then connect them with crab boat captains. I take a fair commission. It's all legal."
"Your situation's a bit special. If you don't want Uncle Sam breathing down your neck, you'll need to file for a work permit and pay taxes later."
He glanced over at Henry. "Just so we're clear—I'm not a forger. Everything I do's above board. I'll take care of what George asked, but I charge a service fee. That cool with you?"
"That's totally fair," Henry said. "You're helping me out. I get it."
Tom nodded, apparently satisfied with the answer. "Good. Saves us both a lot of time and trouble."
They drove in silence for a moment, the old car humming along the chilly coastal road. Henry looked out the window at the quiet gray sky. Despite his alien strength and resilience, something about this simple human help—a captain's concern, a stranger's guidance—felt grounding.
And in a world that never quite made sense for someone like him, that was saying something.
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