The rusted winch screamed as Elias Mercer hauled his net out of the black morning water, but the terrible lightness in the rope had already told him the truth. For forty-two years, the sea had always answered him somehow. That morning, it gave him nothing.
The dripping mesh slapped onto the deck of his skiff with a wet, humiliating sound. No silver flash of cod. No heavy knot of mackerel. No crabs tangled angrily in the corners. Only torn kelp, a crushed soda can, and one pale plastic champagne cork rolled at his boots.
Elias stared at the empty net until the cold air seemed to tighten around his chest. This was not a poor tide. It was not a strange moon or a storm pushing the fish away. This was something worse, something loud and bright and smiling for cameras.