Perhaps it was the long despair of seasickness that kept him to his bunk as the Carpathia opened New York Harbor.
Perhaps it was fear.
He never spoke of it, the long nights of silently crying into his blanket as remorse overtook him, the longer days when he could not sleep and was left to wander the vast, anonymous ship where he knew nobody, loved nobody.
He stared for hours into the foaming wake, looked past it over the boundless horizon of slate sea.
What lay behind him and what lay ahead of him, the ship a lonely, perpetual present.