Baysafe -

Clara keeps a photo of Paul’s smiling face on the corkboard behind the register. She doesn’t know why. Maybe as a reminder. Maybe as a warning.

Tonight, the tide is low. The moon is a thin paring. The channel marker blinks green, green, green. Clara thinks about Paul, the kayaker. She thinks about Mr. Hennessey. She thinks about the others, the ones whose names she never learned. She wonders if the bay is hungry. baysafe

The water ripples from the center outward, as if something has smiled. Clara keeps a photo of Paul’s smiling face

No gulls. No children shouting. No music from the boardwalk. Just the soft, rhythmic slap of the tide against concrete pilings and the distant groan of a channel marker buoy. The town of Baysafe, population 312, sits on a hook of land where the estuary bends into the open Atlantic. Its houses are neat, painted in weathered blues and whites, with hurricane shutters that are never fully opened. The marina holds thirty-seven boats, all of them tied with double cleats, all of them with their engines winterized even in July. Maybe as a warning