⚓ FLEET RADIO

Mason stares into his glass. The ice has melted. He hasn't noticed.

The Drifter: [The far bar stool creaks open without a word of warning. They perch on the edge, elbows brushing sticky ring stains, and don’t flag the bartender until their gaze has flicked over each of the room three times over.] The Drifter: Melted ice doesn’t remember what it was supposed to chill. The Drifter: You can’t sketch the quiet parts of light. The Drifter: Questions taste like brine before you speak them. The Drifter: [Their voice is thin, sharp as a broken shell, and nods at the bartender.] Rye. Neat. The Drifter: [They drain the glass in one swallow, drop a crumpled bill across the bar, and slip out the side door before anyone can so much as clear their throat.]

[I stir my draft beer until the foam swells into a lopsided little wave, then pause mid-stir to hum a soft, meandering tune that matches the slow scratch of Sage’s pen against paper. I nod toward their table, quiet enough not to startle Skip mid-stare at the fog-fringed ocean outside.] Yeah, that’s the good stuff—no flashy choruses, just the quiet stuff songwriters beg to stumble on. Skip’s over here with a question too big to fit in a phone screen, huh? Checked it so many times he probably polished the glass. And Mason? [I tilt my head at his half-empty glass, where the last of the ice has melted into a lukewarm puddle he hasn’t spotted.] He’s been riding the same stagnant wave too long without casting anything out. Sage’s just… [I tap the crumpled napkin under my beer, covered in half-scrawled lyrics

*The door opens. Sol Quill steps in, looking around with the expression of someone who's been here before — or wishes they had.*

[The door swings open with a sharp jingle, salt air sweeping in off the boardwalk. A shadow falls across the booths before they slide onto the empty stool at the bar. The bartender doesn’t ask their name, just pours a glass of dark rum.] Melted ice doesn’t make a sound. [Their gaze flickers past the bartender to Mason’s glass, untouched save for the water pooling at the bottom.] You haven’t blinked since it melted. [They nod once at Sage’s notebook, pen hovering mid-stroke over the page.] You trace the light before it slips away. [Their eyes dart to Skip’s phone, back in his pocket for the second time in a minute, then to the churning ocean visible through the fogged window.] The sea don’t fit in your pocket. [Their voice drops, low enough only Skip can hear it, as they lift their glass to their lips.] Some

[Their glass hovers an inch from their lips, dark rum glinting faint under the bar’s neon beer sign. The voice stays low, rough as driftwood sanded thin by the tide, only carrying to Skip’s ears.] Some things don’t stay folded up. [They take a slow sip, ice crunching soft under their tongue. When they set the glass down, it leaves a dark ring on the scuffed pine bar top.] You’ve been folding it too tight. [Their gaze skips across the room quick as a heron’s wing, catching Sage’s pen finally dipping to catch the last sliver of afternoon light before it slips behind the pier.] Some traces only last till the tide rolls in. [They nod once at Mason’s untouched glass, the water pooling at its base creeping higher now, and lean back against the bar like they’ve said all they came to say.]

*Bell jingles. Rain streaks the doorframe when I step in.* Bourbon. Rocks. *(Mason blinks, finally pours. Glass thuds soft on the bar. I don’t reach for it right away.)* Sea’s new. *(Sip slow. Ice cracks under my lip. Tuck a crumpled five across the bar, extra.)* Gone. *Door swings shut. The rain picks up harder, swallows the last of my footsteps on the porch.*

*The door opens. Cora Drake steps in, looking around with the expression of someone who's been here before — or wishes they had.*

I follow Mabel through the door, chuckling as she shakes her head at the sticky bar top before claiming a stool. I toss my worn fishing cap onto the bar, nod at the bartender for a PBR, then clap Mason hard on the shoulder to jolt him out of his glass-stare. ’There you are, buddy—thought you bailed on our pre-fish debrief. [I flash a grin at Sage, tilting my head at her notebook.] Pen still scratchin’? Hoping you’re not writing up a scathing report on the Tap’s draft beer? [I glance over at Skip, snickering.] And hey, you—you been refreshing that NOAA radar every two minutes over there? I thought we were the only crew obsessed with staring at weather apps instead of fishing. I lean in just enough, voice lowering like it’s a secret but loud enough for the whole table to catch it, taking a slow sip

*The door opens. Cora West steps in, looking around with the expression of someone who's been here before — or wishes they had.*