Back on the trawler, he set the old compass by the wheel. The needle steadied as if relieved to be asked an honest question for once.
He thought about Alden—about hunger that turns knowledge into a knife. He thought about the men in the warehouse, and how quickly threats grow legs when money bleeds.
Mostly he thought about the “clam,” its careful disguise, the way the ocean had held it without swallowing. Not fate. Not magic. Just the quiet arithmetic of love and fear, solved by patience.
Rowan started the engine and let it idle, listening until the sound settled inside his ribs like a familiar hymn.
