By midmorning he’d tied off to the fuel dock. News travels faster than tides in small towns, and by the time Eli’s boots hit the planks, two men and a rumor were already waiting.
“You dragging scrap now?” Hank Laird asked, half grin, half worry. The harbor master didn’t like surprises that involved paperwork and cranes.
Eli jerked his chin toward the shoals. “Found iron. Big as the anchor on the church statue. Heavier than sin. Looks old.”
“Everything here looks old,” said Joe Pike, who’d fished these waters and the ones inside a bottle since he could stand. “Question is, does it remember you back?”
They argued salvage laws in the way locals do—by quoting uncles and the time the Coast Guard got frisky. In the end, all three looked at the horizon like it might answer for them.
“Leave it,” Hank said finally, voice taking the long way around the word. “We’ve had enough pulled up from there. Chains don’t come alone.”
Eli studied the fuel gauge, the calendar, the price board that didn’t care how much you missed someone. Chains don’t come alone. Neither do debts.
He bought two jerrycans, a length of new rope he couldn’t afford, and a lie he hoped would hold until evening—“Just chasing mackerel, nothing more.”
