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."

Instead of digging, Halloran decided to read the whole notebook first. The dead man had spent years studying Meridian. If Halloran understood what was buried before he touched it, maybe he'd live longer than the man who wrote it. He sat in the wheelhouse and turned to the first page.

The first pages were ordinary survey notes. Then the handwriting changed. The dead man had found the Meridian settlers' last records. They hadn't fled the rising sea. Year after year, they had fed something to it to keep the island from sinking for good. The bargain had finally broken. Halloran heard the captain's boots stop outside the wheelhouse door.

Halloran tore the broken-bargain page from the notebook and stuffed it in his coat. If the island wanted to be fed, it could starve. He told the captain to take them home and burned the rest of the notebook in the wheelhouse stove. Whatever Meridian had buried, no one would dig it up using these pages. The island sank behind them, still hungry, still waiting for the next fool with a map.