The trawler stank of diesel and old fish. Halloran stood at the rail, a dead man's notebook tucked in his coat, watching the spot on the chart where an island should be. Low tide would uncover it for six hours, then drown it again. Six hours to dig up whatever the Meridian settlement had buried before the water took it back. The captain spat over the side. "Mud's showing," he said. "Go now or go home."

Halloran didn't trust the captain's grin. Before leaving, he flipped to the last page of the notebook. The dead man had scrawled one line: "Don't go alone. They count the boats that come, not the boats that leave." Halloran turned and looked back at the trawler's crew. They had stopped working to watch him.

Halloran played it calm and asked the captain for a second man to help carry whatever he found. The captain agreed too quickly and sent a young deckhand named Pike. As they rowed out, Pike whispered, "He's not coming back for you. He never does." Halloran kept rowing, now watching two horizons at once.

On the flats, Pike proved right. The moment Halloran lifted the box, the deckhand bolted for the dinghy and rowed off, leaving him stranded. But Pike had left his own satchel behind, and inside was a flare gun. Halloran fired it at the trawler, daring the captain to come collect what he was owed.