Author's Note: Hello, readers old and new! This is something of a departure from my usual style, as I felt a weird urge to write this story in the first person present tense. Strange. Anyway, I'm not sure how successful this will be, so please review and tell me if it's worth continuing!

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When my boat comes in. It's a strange phrase, I think to myself as I get ready for another long day. It means when your luck improves. I'll buy a better house when my boat comes in, that sort of thing. It's not really something I would say, although I don't say much anyway.

Perhaps I should introduce myself. My name is Lukas Bondevik. I am twenty-two years old. I live in Norway with my brother, Emil. There's a story behind that, actually. I was an only child, since although my parents always wanted to have a second child, they never could. When I was eighteen and moved out, they found the house to be too empty and silent, so they adopted a little Icelandic baby boy. That's Emil. It was strange for me to adapt to a baby brother at the age of eighteen, but I took it in my stride. Two years later, my parents were involved in a road accident in which they both died. It was stipulated in my mother's will that if anything were to happen to them, I would become Emil's guardian. I do my best for him. I work as the driver of one of the tourist boats taking people to see the fjords, two hours per trip, up and down all day. It's ironic really – my boat comes into port every day and yet my luck never gets any better.

I look at the clock and see it's already half past seven. Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I call downstairs. 'Emil, are you ready yet?' I hear a muffled noise of assent and go downstairs. Every morning, I feel a twinge of guilt. I don't spend nearly enough time with him as I should. He's growing into a taciturn, reserved child, like I was. Like I still am. I love him, of course I do, but I don't know how to show affection in the way my parents did. I love him distantly, like an emigrant uncle who sends money once a year. I'm a poor replacement for my parents and I'm reminded of that every time I look into his deep, serious eyes. When I reach the bottom of the stairs and put my shoes on, he takes my hand without a word and we walk to the door. He's only four, God bless him. Four years old and at the breakfast and after-school club every day. I wish I didn't have to work so long but if I didn't, I'd have to work weekends as well, something that's impossible for me.

The walk to school takes fifteen minutes and we don't speak at all, apart from a slightly awkward goodbye at the gates. I kiss his cheek because there's a teacher watching, expecting some display of warmth, as if that compensates for the fact that I drop him off so early and pick him up so late. I wave at his receding figure and head to the bus stop. When the bus comes, it's full of morning commuters, like it always is. I have to stand right next to a large man who seems to occupy more space than you would expect, even from one of his size. I carefully hold my body away but I end up jolting into him every time we stop. As we leave the town and come onto the country roads, the stops become less and less frequent. A few people get on but none get off. The bus goes to the next town and they're all on their way there, except for me. I get off miles from civilisation, the only buildings being the small harbour complex with a flat slab of tarmac, the carpark, gouged out of the mountainside. The people who go on the tours think that the scenery is incredible. I used to, but familiarity, as they say, has bred contempt, and now it moves me no more than the rows of ugly houses I pass on the bus every day.

The place is empty when I arrive. I'm always the first one here. I have a lot to do before we can go. I have to put on the stupid sailor suit that the boss of the company insists all drivers wear. I check the fuel and replenish it if necessary. I measure the oil, again, adding more if need be. I make sure that all the rescue equipment is present and in good condition and that the first aid kits are full. The last thing is to go into the control room and run the engine for a few minutes to check that everything is smooth. There's always some sort of problem when I run my inspections but everything's done by the time the others arrive and by then I'm already holed up in my control room. I don't do social interaction and everyone knows that, so I'm left alone unless something's wrong. If I didn't have Emil, I could probably go a whole day without saying a word. You've probably guessed by now that I'm single. It's not so much that I don't want a boyfriend, it's more that I'm worried about the effect on Emil. At my age, people have relationships that last weeks, a few months at most. I don't want Emil to be introduced to someone and getting attached to them, then having to go through the inevitable break-up. Besides, I don't have time to go out. Every moment I'm not working is spent looking after Emil or catching up on my sleep.

I'm surprised, and not a little nervous, when my boss walks in. 'Lukas,' he says, without preamble, 'I have someone here who you need to meet.' He's always like that, always very brisk. I suppose it's a German thing. 'This is Mathias,' he continues, gesturing to the man standing beside him, 'the new tour guide. I'd like you to give him the grand tour, since you know the boat better than anyone.' It's a compliment but I'm not sure how to respond, so I just nod. My boss goes out, leaving me with this stranger. 'I suppose you'd better come with me then,' I say, horribly aware of how unfriendly I must seem. Mathias smiles broadly. 'Aye aye, captain!' he says with mock salute, following me as I leave the room. I'm not sure how to begin the tour but I force myself to speak. 'The room we were just in was the control room. You don't need to go in there.' He looks at me a little uncertainly and I panic inside. Am I really that rude? I walk on with him trailing behind, pointing out the important areas until we come out onto the viewing deck. 'This is where you'll be working,' I tell him, then move over to where the life rafts are stored. 'These are what we use to evacuate if there's an emergency,' I say, then briefly describe what they're like.' Mathias laughs. 'They sound cosy! I might steal one and use it for a spot of fishing.' 'They're for emergency use only,' I primly reply, realising a fraction too late that he has made a joke. I curse myself. Why can't I just talk to people like a normal human being?

At nine o'clock, the first coach rolls slowly into the carpark and I watch from my seat in the control room as it disgorges its load of excited schoolchildren. The sight reminds me of Emil, and I wonder for a moment about what he's doing. I hope the other children are being nice to him. Some of them, he tells me, are mean because he's shy. The idea should fill me with righteous anger. I should march into school and demand to see the parents of the offending children but all I can do, in my weakness born of timidity, is tell him to ignore the teasing. It's what I would have done at his age and I would still do if it happened to me today. I see the figures, tiny at this distance, being organised into lines as the teachers call the register as the children jostle and push, impatient for the trip to begin. Eventually, they disperse, form groups around their designated teachers, and are led aboard. I look at the digital clock set into the plastic to my left. Quarter past nine. In fifteen minutes, I'll turn on the engines and start moving. The other sailors have already cast off our mooring ropes and now the boat floats, raring to go, just waiting for me to release its pent-up power. For the moment, I savour the privacy that the little bubble of my control room gives me. To me, it feels like a place truly my own.

When the time comes, I push the main handle forward and the boat roars into noisy life. I hear a few shrieks from the viewing deck as the children hear the engine, feel its vibrations under foot and smell the nauseating diesel. I hope that none of them are sick, since that tends to ruin the trip for everyone. Once we begin to move and the noise settles to a constant low drone, Mathias begins his tour. I know this because his microphone is linked to a speaker in the control room, to make sure that the tour is going well. I know the waters so well that I can give the act of driving just a little of my attention and listen to Mathias at the same time. I can't believe what I hear. The last guide repeated the same thing every time, until everyone on the boat could have done his tour for him, and he bored people to tears. Mathias is loud and exuberant. He answers questions with enthusiasm and poses his own. He makes the children laugh. He makes them interested. It will pass, I think to myself. A couple of weeks, a month at most, and he'll be just as dull as the other one.

After the second tour of the day, a group of retired Americans, the crew has a few minutes to eat something. I take a sandwich and am about to return to the control room when Mathias seeks me out. 'Is something wrong?' I ask, irritated at the delay. This is my only break for the whole day. He shakes his head. 'No, I just wanted to chat,' he says. 'Get to know you a bit better.' I step away. I feel strange. I don't talk to people, I just don't. It's not in my nature. 'I don't have time,' I say, pushing past him. I'm deeply uncomfortable. Nobody ever chats to me. If anyone did, I wouldn't have the faintest idea about what to say. I don't dare look back on my to the control room.

When the end of the day finally comes, everyone gets to leave except for me. I have to repeat all my checks from the morning, plus make sure that the boat is securely moored. I change out of my uniform in the toilets and stuff every hated bit of it into the bag. I'll have to iron it tonight, I think, adding it to my mental to-do list. I find myself thinking about Mathias. I suppose he'll be like all the other sailors, now that he's learnt to avoid me. I always push people away. I never let anyone get close. Maybe it's partly because of Emil, but really it's more because I'm scared of what could happen. I have so many insecurities and I just can't bring myself to share them with others.

On the bright side, I think grimly as I walk to the bus stop, facing into the strong wind that's blown up over the course of the day, I don't have to worry about being late for Emil. He's at Peter's house, and I'm glad for that. I don't like the after-school club. The toys are always broken, the paints are dried up, none of the advertised activities are actually offered. The staff always treat the children like an irritation and particularly Emil, since I'm so frequently late. The bus is late and just as crowded as it was this and every morning. At least the fat man isn't there this time. There's just enough space for me to read a few pages of my book, a pretty dense guide to childcare. I want to cry. Emil is almost my son, and yet I have to read a book written by someone who's never met him, just so I can try to understand him.

I get off a few stops later than usual and walk the short distance to Peter's house. Peter is Emil's friend, although they met because of my friendship with his parents, Berwald and Tino. Tino works at the nursery Emil used to go to last year. That was a hard year. It was costing me a fortune to pay for every possible session to make sure he could stay there all day. I vaguely knew Tino from the times I occasionally arrived late, apologising profusely. Then one day there was a bit of a crisis on the boat. Someone fell overboard and we had to launch a full-on rescue. They were finem but I had to spend hours afterwards talking to the coastguards, then I couldn't leave until I'd written a full report about the event. I arrived at the nursery two hours late, exhausted, horribly guilty and in tears. I had expected Tino to glare at me, to judge, to reach for the phone and call social services. Instead, he looked at my tear-stained face, my untidy uniform I hadn't had a chance to remove, the way I was barely still standing and he said, 'Tell me.' And I told him. Since then, we've been friends, and I don't think I could manage without him. Still, even though Emil loves going there to play, every time I tell him with false enthusiasm that he has yet another playdate, the implication is that it's only because I don't have time for him.

I walk up the narrow path to the front door and knock. From inside I can hear excited voices, then Tino opens it. He's wearing an apron and there's a dab of flour on his nose. 'Hi Lukas,' he says brightly. 'We've just been baking, as you can probably tell. Come in, Emil's dying to make you sample one of his cakes. He leads me into the kitchen and I sit down at the table as he makes us coffee. Peter and Emil are playing somewhere upstairs and I can hear muffled thumping as they run around. Tino looks up at the ceiling. 'One of these days, they're going to break right through it.' he mutters. He asks me about work, and for some reason I tell him about Mathias. 'There's a new guy,' I say, trying to sound offhand. 'Nice?' I shrug. 'Loud. Not really my type, but you know my thoughts on dating anyway.' Tino looks at me, concern in his striking purple eyes. 'You know, Lukas, we'd be happy to have Emil to stay the night if you ever did want to have a bit of fun. When I was your age I stayed out clubbing until six in the morning.' I'm touched by the offer, but I don't think I'll be taking him up on it anytime soon, so I steer the conversation in a safer direction.

A little while later, Berwald comes in. He kisses Tino and gives me a friendly smile. We understand each other, me and Berwald. We're both quiet, both thoughtful, both a little shy in our own ways. At the sound of the door, Peter and Emil come hurtling downstairs to say hello. Berwald lifts Peter up and ruffles his hair, making him squeal. I feel a sharp stab of envy as I watch them. They're such a perfect happy family. I know they had to wait absolutely years to adopt Peter, and few children are as wanted as he was. He has a bedroom and playroom overflowing with toys, both shop-bought and lovingly handmade by Berwald, and in the garden he has a playhouse, trampoline and swing. Emil was just as wanted, I think, but by my parents, not me. I have done my duty in raising him but nothing more. He has a few toys, including his beloved Mr Puffin, but he has not been cherished like Peter. I have failed him, I think, and I will continue to fail him. One day, I fear, he will look at me and be ashamed to call me his brother.