They were not rich people, and none of them pretended otherwise. A good week meant paid fuel, patched nets, and maybe a roast chicken from Della’s market. A bad week meant soup, credit, and quiet worry nobody mentioned unless the bottle was open.
Elias liked the old rules of the place. Boats moved when work demanded it. People ducked under lines without fuss. A man carrying a crate of bait did not have to say, “Excuse me.” The dock itself seemed to know he was coming.