The flare I did not throw

The hardest part was not firing the orange flare. It was standing there afterward with the tin still in my hand while Tully’s launch took the towing line and Dain’s people refused to clear the wharf. Everyone was waiting for me to turn the moment into a direction. I gave them nothing. Maybe I was being careful. Maybe I was being proud. Those are close enough now to taste the same.

I kept looking past Dain, past the gathered followers, toward the black water beyond the point. Lyle’s boat was somewhere out there, and every engine I heard sounded wrong. My first thought was that he had abandoned us. My second was worse: that my flare had brought him back into danger.

When the rifle stayed trained from the crane, I had no clever answer for it. I could move, split their attention, make myself useful again. Instead I held the skiff against the hull and did the small thing directly in front of me. That should satisfy me. It did not. I want proof that usefulness is enough, but I am tired of needing proof from anybody.

The tea at the roadhouse went cold while I pressed my fist against my ribs. They were sore in that deep, resentful way that makes every breath feel negotiated. I told myself the pain meant I had survived something. Pain is convenient like that; it rewards survival even when survival is not what you wanted.

I did not sleep until the engines stopped making me tense. Lyle did not return. I will not write that as betrayal. He may have found another way around the point. He may be waiting for darkness. I can leave that much room.