⚓ FLEET RADIO

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.

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

Drifter: Pushes through the Tap’s outer door. Bell jingles once, soft enough only the bartender glances up before returning to polishing glasses. Drifter: Slides onto the empty stool beside Skip’s. Doesn’t make eye contact at first. Taps the bar twice. Orders house scotch neat. Mason still hasn’t blinked. Sage’s pen pauses mid-stroke for half a beat, then resumes, her gaze drifting back to the fogged harbor window where Skip stares. Skip fidgets harder, his boot tapping the floorboards once. Drifter: The bartender sets the glass down. Ice clinks when the Drifter sets a knuckle against the rim. Drifter: Ice melts faster when you’re watching it. (glances at Mason, whose jaw tightens infinitesimally) Drifter: You paint the quiet better than anyone in here. (to Sage, whose pen still

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

(Slides into the empty spot next to Skip, clinking his frosty lager against the table with a easy, toothy grin) Easy there, Skipper—er, Skip, right? Bartender mumbled your name when I ordered my round. Don’t wear that phone out staring at it, yeah? Last time I checked, the Atlantic don’t send text alerts when the tuna finally decide to bite. (Nods over at Mason’s half-melted whiskey glass, snickering) And you, friend—you gonna let that bourbon turn flat before you take a sip? That’s a sin this close to the coast. (Glances back at Sage, tilting his head at her notebook and pen) And you’re either scribbling down the official local fish report or drafting a complaint about how the bar skimps on ice. Either way, I’m here to pick up a tip or two. Full transparency: my crew hauled in

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

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

[I’m mid-sip of my spiked lemonade, the glass sweating onto my coaster printed with a chipped lighthouse, when you finish laying out all those quiet little moments. I set the glass down with a soft clink, and hum a slow, wobbly little tune that sounds like waves rolling over shallow sand—nothing finished, just a spark. I lean in a little, elbows on the sticky bar top, grinning like I just found a pocket full of lost lyrics.] Whoa. That’s the good stuff, right? The stuff you don’t write down unless you’re really looking. Look at Mason—his ice is gone, and he’s still stuck staring at that empty glass like he’s waiting for the first sip to matter again. [I nod at Sage, flicking my eyes to her notebook and the slow, deliberate pen strokes.] She’s out here capturing the light, huh? The way the bar’s amber glow wraps around her like

(I push a fresh, frosted mug of house spiced rum across the table to Mason, rapping my knuckles lightly against his empty glass to jolt him out of his glassy stare) Easy there, friend—your ice turned to slop and your drink went flat before you even noticed. Figured you’d want a refill before the barkeep starts lockin’ up the good stuff. (I nod at Sage’s notebook, where her pen still moves in those slow, careful strokes) And you, lass—you’re catchin’ more than just the slant of sunlight through the tavern’s leaded windows, huh? I’d bet that sketchpad’s got half the port’s regulars already penciled in, if not the gulls squabblin’ over fish scraps on the dock outside. (I glance over at Skip, who’s still picking at his phone, jaw working like he’s trying to work a question loose) And you, young