The quay is a battlefield of rope.

Wren’s hands shake on a mend. Kade’s ledger is open on a barrel as if numbers could stop wind. The Promise-Post leans the way old wood leans: still working.

Wren is afraid, not greedy. You say it out loud so it becomes a fact and not a fight. Pip wants a third way that is not empty the pantry and not starve politely.

You lay down what you have, depending on the path that brought you: a rip at the Slip that will eat a skiff; a surge-mark that will eat extra nets; a mouth that tastes like a nursery; a skin that is not salvage.

Kade mutters, “If I put the coat back, I look weak.”

“You look like a harbor-master,” Pip says, which is almost kind.

The storm is still stacking. The bar still wears its rumor. You do not have a week. You have a tide-cycle.