Harper had hoped to hide out on the ship, making himself scarce and trying to avoid detection until they docked. Now, it was plain that his latest plan had failed resoundingly, just like all of his recent plans. The passage to Greenleaf would take weeks, and there was no way he would survive locked in this box. His options were limited to kicking and screaming and calling attention to himself now, or waiting until he was too hungry and thirsty and uncomfortable to stand it any longer first.

Either way, he was slated for an encounter with an angry captain and crew, and ships like this one weren’t noted for their merciful attitude towards stowaways. Harper went limp, wondering just when the universe had decided to curse him. Some people had happy lives, friends, and actual good luck. His luck ran more towards seeing everything he ever cared about destroyed, winding up at the mercy of the most sadistic bastards in the ‘verse, and having people automatically assume he deserved to be in whatever wretched state he found himself at any given time. He kicked the side of the crate angrily. And now, he was stuck in a box waiting to do it all over again.

*

Mal sat at the dining table rubbing his temples wearily. It had been a good day. Things had gone smooth; they’d stocked up on parts and supplies, picked up possibly honest work, and hadn’t even been shot at once. But he was about to admit that a bullet to some non-vital body part would provide a welcome distraction from the incessant pacing and hurling about of things that Jayne was currently engaging in.

“Didn’t ya’ hear me?” asked Jayne.

“Yes, Jayne, I heard you. And no, we ain’t turning the ship around to look for some thief. Chances are River snuck the thing off ta’ decorate the ceiling with, anyway.”

Jayne immediately looked up, and Mal groaned under his breath. “Jayne. Stop lookin’ for the gorram gun. Thing’ll turn up, or it won’t. We got lots of perfectly good guns on this ship, an’ using one on you is startin’ to sound real nice about now.”

Jayne’s eyes continued to trace the ceiling as he paced around the kitchen, and Mal conceded defeat, pushing his chair back and standing. Might as well go see to the cargo for the third time, ‘fore I start using my merc as target practice.

As he walked through the cargo hold, relishing the peace and quiet, Mal realized there wasn’t so much peace and quiet to relish. One of his neatly stowed crates had developed a certain tendency to make odd thumping noises, and a rather pathetic-sounding cry issued forth from it. Mal listened for a minute, sighed, and walked over to the comm.

“Zoe?” he asked.

“Yes, sir?” came her voice in reply.

“I didn’t get married again, did I?”

“Uh, no, sir. Why do you ask?”

“Just checkin.’” He clicked the mic off and walked back to the crates, unfastening the straps and pulling off the upper ones. Finally, gasping slightly from exertion, he uncovered the large bottom crate that he and Wash had lugged so obligingly up the ramp.

*