The boat-shed mast is a wet finger pointed at a charged sky.

Along the metal, a gentle blue-white glow gathers and fades, like the ghost of a fluorescent tube. It does not burn you from a step away. It does not chase. St. Elmo’s fire, Aunt Mara called it once, after a sailor story: a brush of electrical glow on tall pointed things when a thunderstorm is building. Not a spirit signing the mast. The air is so charged that the metal leaks a little light.

Thunder is closer now. You count. One-mississippi, two— boom. The storm is nearer than your comfort but not on top of you yet. Ozone prickles, a clean sharp smell, like laundry and sparks.

Jonah whispers, “Sky omen.” Then, because he is trying, “Or… electricity.”

On the dike, something four-legged moves against the chopped water. Eyes pick up your lantern and throw it back. A black-dog story would start right here, in this weather, with that shine.

The shed’s door is unlatched. Inside: barometer, weather radio, a place to be a person instead of a lightning rod.