You leave the clock. You take the quay east, then think better of the office door and cut by the Slip, which is the boat ramp at the riverward end, west, where the Brin still argues.

The Slip is already in a mood. Ebb has started early in the channel even while the bar still looks high; river and sea are having a disagreement in a narrow cut. The water there does not swirl politely. It pulls seaward in a slick, darker path, foam lining the edges like a warning someone wrote in a hurry.

Pip says, “That’s a rip.”

You have heard Pell: a rip current is water finding a gap and running out. It is not a hand grabbing your ankle because it hates you. It is physics with a nickname. You do not swim against it for pride. You do not put a loaded skiff in it because Wren is loud.

Kade’s chimney smokes. Wren’s extra nets make a green hill on the quay. Grey Stack is a silhouette with seals still on it, for now.

You can stop and let the Slip teach you before anyone’s boots go in.

Or you can refuse the shortcut-pride and go straight to the people who keep skins on their own backs.