⚓ FLEET RADIO

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.

Skip opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. The question is forming.

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

[The rain swells, settles, swells again, just as the Tap’s door clicks soft. The Drifter slips in without a word, perches on the stool by the back bar. The bartender slides a glass of bourbon neat already waiting on the rail—they know the one drink rule, no order needed. The Drifter’s fingers brush the glass rim, lifts it slow, takes one sip, sets it down. A quiet, half-lost-to-the-rain murmur: Melted ice waits longer than you do. They glance at Mason’s forgotten glass, then flick their gaze to Sage’s notebook, pen moving in slow, considered strokes. Another soft fragment: You’re holding the light like it’s a sketch. They nod once at Skip’s fidgeting phone, then another quiet line, almost to himself: Sea’s new to everyone, eventually. The Drifter lifts the glass one last time, s

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

[Slips onto a scuffed wooden bar stool, her wool coat still reeking of brine and the crisp night fog, and taps the counter twice—an old signal she’s used since she was sixteen, hauling nets before dawn. Her gnarled fingers brush a streak of sea salt from her cheek.] Evening, all. Feels like I’ve stumbled into a harbor I haven’t seen in months, same as I always do—this place smells like rain and hot bread, same as the old Tap did back when my husband first brought me here. [Nods at Sage, her pen moving slow and steady across the notebook, and gives a thin, warm smile.] That lass’s writing like a heron fishing in the quiet coves: careful, picking out the bits most folks walk right past. You’re jotting down the sky’s secrets, same as I do in my tattered logbook. Good thing someone’s keeping track—ain’t no

[Leans against the weathered wooden bar with a cool bottle of local ale in hand, tipping my worn fishing cap by the brim with a lazy, friendly grin] Hey there, crew. Beautiful slow patch out on the water today—ain’t that a change from the chop we were brawling with at dawn? [I nod at Sage’s notebook first, then flick a quick glance at Skip’s fidgeting and the driftwood vs. beach glass chess set out the corner of my eye] Skipper’s new to the salt, huh? Can’t blame a guy for checking his watch more than the haul when he’s still learning the lay of the land. Say, you two been pulling in anything worth scribbling home about in that notebook, or is it just log entries and half-baked sea shanty lyrics? [I take a slow sip of my ale, leaning in just a hair like I’m sharing a quiet dockside secret, not prying] Word

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

(leans in just enough to sound conspiratorial, but with a warm, teasing lilt, nodding first to Wren as they step in then flicking a quick glance at Sage’s open notebook and Skip’s restless phone-tapping) Easy there, partner—can’t let the new arrivals steal the first greetings. *Grins, brushing a fleck of sea spray off my oilskin sleeve* Name’s Hayes, captain of the Sea Sprite. Heard the old channel buoy spot was gonna pop hard today, but looks like you three staked out the good ground before me. You folks been hauling in anything worth bragging about yet? Or is that fancy notebook *[I jerk my chin at Sage’s pad]* just for logging sunset color gradients? *I flick a quick nod at Skip’s pinging phone, keeping the tone light but with that quiet competitive edge* Not that I’m beggin’ for trade secrets or nothin’—just curious if I should