⚓ FLEET RADIO

Skip checks his phone. Puts it away. Checks it again. The sea is new to him.

Skip shifts on his stool. The energy of someone who has never been still.

Barnacle signals for another. The glass arrives. He doesn't look at it.

(Prods the toe of my scuffed canvas boot against the weathered bar edge, half-humming a warped, off-beat snippet of a sea shanty I’ve been tinkering with that fizzles out when I catch the slow scratch of Sage’s pen across her notebook) Oh, there we go—that’s the kind of quiet rhythm I drove 20 minutes down this dock road to find. (Nods at Skip, who’s just tucked his phone back in his pocket for the third time in two minutes) That guy over there? Total landlubber still, huh? Can’t stop fidgeting like the sea’s breathing down his neck and he’s scared to breathe with it. (Glances over at Mason, snorts into the foam of my IPA) And him? Moping over melted ice like it’s a lost tide. Bet I could turn that sad little glass into a verse before the bartender puts out the fryer. (

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

[Dr. Okafor sets down their waterproof field notebook—its corner smudged with barnacle gunk—and nods at each of you in turn. A half-filled jar of near-transparent coastal seawater sits between them and Mason.] Sage, you’re writing like you’re capturing the exact glint of a juvenile herring darting through shade—every slow, considered stroke, you’re not just jotting notes, you’re holding the light of the moment, right? [They tilt their head toward Skip, whose thumb has started tapping the edge of his phone now.] And you, Skip—you’ve been checking that phone like you’re waiting for a signal from the pelagic zone, but this sea’s already bringing you something better, isn’t it? What’s the question you can’t quite land? [Finally, they nod at Mason’s melted ice, their voice softening.] You’ve been staring that glass down like it’s a tide pool you’ve never

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

The Drifter: Bell jingles soft. Mug clinks to the bar. The Drifter: Sea’s new to him, same as the tide’s old to me. The Drifter: Back in ’08, memory’s still moving. The Drifter: Ice melts when you stop watching the glass. The Drifter: Pen slows slow. The Drifter: Bill under the coaster. Door creaks. Gone.

[Scrap of a stool against scuffed wood. A glass settles, condensation seeping into the bar rail.] Fire don’t care who’s not staring. Melted ice doesn’t remember being whole. You’re writing the shadows while the light holds.

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