Thomas Blanky did not give a good gob fart about buttoning his trousers and shirts. Not yet. He was alive. The thing on the ice had done its best to make him otherwise, but he was still alive. He could taste food, chat with his mates, drink his daily gill of rum—already his bandaged hands were capable of holding his pewter mug—and read a book if someone propped it up for him. He was determined to read The Vicar of Wakefield before he shuffled off what was left of his mortal coil. Blanky was alive and he planned to stay that way for as long as he could. In the meantime, he was strangely happy.
