That afternoon, Nora walked the shore below the cliffs while the tide pulled away from the rocks. She searched without admitting to herself what she hoped to find. The beach gave her only weed, broken shells, and gull feathers until near the reef she spotted a streak of rust.
It clung to a jagged stone in a pool no larger than a basin. When she reached in, her fingers closed around a thick old bolt, orange with age but clearly shaped by human tools. She turned it over in her palm and felt her pulse begin to climb.