⚓ FLEET RADIO

Sage murmurs something to herself. It sounds like the start of a line.

Sage looks up from her notebook. She's watching the room the way a painter watches light.

Sage has her notebook out. The pen moves in slow, considered strokes.

(I’m perched on a splintered bar stool, draft beer sweating onto my palm, and I pause mid-sip when I clock Mason’s untouched, fully-melted glass—let out a soft, rumbling chuckle, then lean in to Sage, keeping my voice low so I don’t break her concentration) Y’know, that guy staring into his whiskey? He’s mourning a ghost of ice before he even knows it melted. (Nod at Della, who’s now hovering by the mounted fishing trophies, squinting like she’s trying to read the faded year stamps) That kid by the door? She’s here for the same reason we all are—looking for a piece of the sea that didn’t wash out to the deep. (Glance back at her notebook, then hum a short, scratchy little melody that matches the slow strokes of her pen) You’re nailing the light, huh? Last night I was on the jetty at blue

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

(Wipes a stray fleck of sea salt from the cuff of his well-worn wool trade coat, setting his half-empty spiced ale tankard down with a soft, resonant clink. His grin is easy and warm, crinkling the corners of eyes crusted with a day’s worth of sea wind grit—standard for a man who’s spent half his life on trawlers and trading skiffs.) Easy there, Skip—no need to wear out your thumb refreshing that phone. Bet you forgot most of this southern coast’s got cell service thinner than the fog that rolls in at high tide, huh? Can’t blame a landlubber new to the sea for clinging to their familiar toys, though. (Nods sharply at Sage’s notebook, where her pen still hovers half an inch above a page of neat, compact scrawl, and leans in just a touch.) Sage, you’ll want to lean in—got a rumor from the fishing grounds south of

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

*(Saunters over from my own boat’s rail, boots scuffing the warm deck planks, grinning sharp and easy—equal parts friendly and competitive, as always—rag slung over one shoulder)* Whoa, easy there, Skip—you’re about to work your jaw right off before you even get the question out. Barnacle, hold that 2008 deep-sea tale for a cold one later, yeah? Right now I’ve got a dumb bet going with my first mate that your stern cooler’s got more bigeye than we pulled in this morning, and I need to know if I’m gonna owe him a round or not. *(Glances over at Mason with a snort, then leans in just a hair like I’m sharing a confidential tip, even though it’s the most straightforward question in the world)* No need to get fancy—just a rough count. We’re not here to poach your spot, just square up the bra

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

[I’m hunched over a chipped stoneware mug, steam curling thick with the scent of seaweed tea and a splash of spiced rum, my knees creaking just enough to match the floorboards’ creak above the Tap’s quiet hum. My hands are crusted with salt and calloused from hauling nets, and I tap the bar once, slow, like I’m counting the beats of a coming storm.] Well now, don’t ye all act like you ain’t got something in the air. There’s Sage, pen movin’ like she’s sketching the edge of a high-pressure system—slow, careful, knowin’ exactly how the light’ll shift come dawn. Then there’s Skip, fidgeting like a school of tiny bass trapped in a tide pool—can’t sit still, like he can taste the first ripple of a current he ain’t never seen before. [My eyes lock on the Drifter for a beat, and