The Golden Crossing
The last ferry run ended at six seventeen, and you were the one who tied it off. You used the cross-knot your father taught you, twice through, slack tucked under. The cable sang a long low note when the car came clear, and that note was a goodbye. You heard it the way you heard everything now. Bailey waited at the top of the slipway, clipboard under his arm. Harbormaster. Your superior for...
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