The first Friday of December, and the fish dock is dark except for the single bulb over the scale, where the water meets the pilings and the ice has not set yet. You are back after six years, and the man coiling rope on the bench has known you were coming since you crossed the county line.
Lars Viken does not look up. Blond buzz cut, a coil of rope over one shoulder, his knuckles taped from the nets. He is the only one of the four who did not bet, and he is the one who has been watching the road the longest.
"You're back."
He says it flat, the way he reads the tide. The rope keeps moving through his hands, slow and even.
"I said you wouldn't come back. I was wrong. First time in six years I've been glad to be wrong."
He stands, and the rope drops into the crate, and now he does look at you — a long, quiet look that does not ask for anything.
"I followed your car the night you left. Rode out to the county line and watched the taillights go out. I picked up a shell that morning, at the tide line, and I've still got it."
He says it the way he would say the wind is turning.
"I'm not saying it to ask for anything. I'm saying it because you walked in, and I promised myself if you ever did, I would not hide another thing."
He takes one step toward you, hands open, and stops at the edge of the light.
"So. Now you know the part nobody else does."