The Undertow / Season 1, Episode 1
Distress in the Fog
Rena Okafor’s boots hit the wet deck of the Coast Guard cutter as the engine growled beneath her, the salt-sting of Pelican Bay clawing at her throat. The radio crackled in her earpiece, spitting static and a voice half-drowned by the roar of the tide. “Lieutenant, we’ve got a visual. Two kayakers, maybe a hundred yards off the north breakwater. They’re not responding.” She gripped the railing, the cold steel biting into her palms, and squinted through the fog that hung like a soaked shroud over the water. The ocean churned, a restless gray beast, and somewhere in its maw, two specks of neon yellow bobbed erratically. Tourists, probably. Always tourists in June, like moths to a flame they didn’t understand.
“Get us closer, Nowak,” she barked into her mic, her voice sharp over the wind’s howl. The cutter lurched forward, slicing through waves that slapped the hull with a wet, resentful rhythm. Her stomach twisted—not from the roll of the sea, but from the memory of Galveston, the last rescue, the one that went south. The scream of a man she couldn’t reach, the weight of his absence still lodged in her chest like a splinter. She shook it off, her jaw tight, and scanned the water again. The kayaks tilted, one nearly capsizing as a wave reared up, black and slick as oil.
“Lieutenant, they’re not paddling,” Nowak’s voice came again, tense through the static. “They’re just… sitting there. Staring out.”
Rena’s brow creased, her gloved hand tightening on the rail. She’d seen plenty of panic, plenty of dumb shock, but this felt off. The fog pressed in, damp on her skin, beading on her jacket like sweat. She could taste the salt, bitter on her lips, and hear the gulls screaming overhead, their cries slicing through the low moan of the wind. “Get the spotlight on them,” she ordered, stepping toward the bow. The beam cut through the haze, pinning the kayakers in a harsh white glare. Two figures, motionless, heads tilted toward the horizon as if something out there was calling their names.
“Wave at ‘em, yell if you have to,” she said, her voice steady despite the prickle crawling up her spine. Nowak shouted from the deck, his arms flailing, but the figures didn’t flinch. The cutter edged closer, the engine’s rumble vibrating through her boots, and Rena’s eyes narrowed. The closer they got, the more wrong it looked. Their hands weren’t on the paddles; they hung limp at their sides, fingers brushing the water like they were petting something beneath the surface.
“Lieutenant,” Nowak muttered, stepping up beside her, his breath fogging in the cold. “You seein’ this? They’re not even blinkin’.”
“Yeah,” she said, low, her pulse thudding in her ears. “I see it.” She forced her hands to stay steady, though every instinct screamed to turn the cutter around. Not her call, though. Never her call. She was here to save people, not to run from whatever this town’s water hid. “Prep the rescue line. We’re pulling them in.”
The deck tilted as a wave hit, spraying icy mist across her face, stinging her eyes. She wiped it away with a sleeve, the rough fabric scraping her cheek, and kept her gaze locked on the kayakers. One of them—a woman, maybe, from the shape of the hoodie—turned her head just slightly, not toward the cutter, but down, into the water. Rena’s breath caught, a cold weight settling in her gut. She didn’t know why, but she felt it: whatever they were looking at wasn’t something she wanted to see.
Across town, in the shadow of Pelican Bay’s crumbling pier, Hector Delgado sat on his usual bench, his gnarled hands wrapped around a thermos of black coffee that had gone cold hours ago. The wood beneath him was splintered, slick with morning damp, and the air reeked of rotting kelp and fish guts left by the gulls. He didn’t mind. Hadn’t minded in years. The pier creaked with every wave that rolled beneath it, a slow groan that matched the ache in his bones. He stared out at the gray expanse, the fog so thick it turned the ocean into a smudge of nothing, and waited. Always waiting.
“Hex, you’re gonna freeze out here one day,” a voice called, rough but warm, from behind him. He didn’t turn. Didn’t need to. Only one person in this town still bothered to check on him, and even then, it was mostly out of pity. Footsteps crunched on the gravel path, then Mayor Danny Kim plopped down on the bench beside him, his polished loafers out of place against the weathered boards. Danny’s coat was too thin for the chill, but he didn’t shiver. Probably used to faking comfort for the cameras, Hex thought, his mouth twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
“Been colder,” Hex grunted, taking a sip of the bitter, tepid coffee. It coated his tongue like mud. “Ain’t dead yet.”
Danny chuckled, but it was the kind of laugh that didn’t reach anywhere important. “Yeah, well, don’t make me call the coroner. Town’s got enough bad press without you keelin’ over on public property.” He leaned back, crossing his arms, the sleeves of his coat pulling tight over his shoulders. Hex caught the glint of a gold watch on his wrist—new, probably paid for by last year’s insurance payouts. The drownings. Always three, always June. The town’s dirty little secret, dressed up as tragedy for the news crews.
“You seen the new Coast Guard lady?” Danny asked, his tone shifting, probing. “Transferred in last week. Already pokin’ around the old logs, askin’ questions.”
Hex’s fingers tightened on the thermos, the metal denting under his grip. “She’ll learn,” he said, his voice a low rasp, like gravel dragged by the tide. “They all do. Or they don’t.” His eyes stayed on the water, on the spot where the channel dropped deep, where the current pulled harder than anywhere else along this cursed stretch of coast. He’d lost Miguel there, back in ‘93. His boy, sixteen and stubborn, thought he could outswim the pull. Hex had watched from this same bench, helpless, as the ocean took him. Swallowed him whole. Every June since, he sat here, waiting for the tide to give something back. Or to take him instead.
Danny shifted, uncomfortable, the bench creaking under his weight. “She’s not like the others. Got a look in her eye, like she’s carryin’ something heavy. Might not let this go quiet.”
“Then she’s a fool,” Hex muttered, his gaze still fixed on the fog. Somewhere out there, a buoy bell clanged, a hollow, lonely sound that echoed in his chest. “Ocean don’t care what you carry. It just takes.”
Danny didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched, broken only by the slap of waves against the pilings below. Hex could feel the mayor’s eyes on him, weighing, calculating. Danny knew the drownings kept Pelican Bay afloat—insurance claims, grief tourism, the morbid curiosity that brought strangers every summer to gawk at the “cursed coast.” Hex hated him for it, hated how he smiled for the cameras while families wept. But he understood it, too. Small towns died without blood money.
“June’s started,” Danny said finally, almost a whisper, like saying it too loud would wake something. “You feel it yet?”
Hex’s jaw clenched, his teeth grinding. He didn’t need to feel it. He knew it. The air was thicker today, the salt sharper, sticking to the back of his throat. The gulls were quieter, too, circling low instead of shrieking. And the water—always the water—moved wrong, sluggish one minute, hungry the next. “Always do,” he said, and took another sip of cold coffee, letting it burn down his throat.
At the edge of town, where the cliffs dropped sharp into the sea, Celeste Marrow crouched beside a tide pool, her knees digging into the jagged rock. The wind whipped her hair into her face, strands sticking to her lips with the damp, and she pushed them away with a gloved hand, her fingers trembling not from cold but from what she held. A small glass jar, no bigger than a mason lid, sat in her palm, and inside, something moved. Not swam, not floated—moved, with purpose, though it had no limbs she could name. She’d scooped it from the pool not ten minutes ago, a glob of translucent tissue no bigger than a grape, but now it pulsed against the glass, pressing like it wanted out.
“Jesus,” she breathed, her voice lost to the roar of the surf below. The pool at her feet shimmered, a mirror of trapped ocean, its surface rippling with each gust. She could smell the brine, sharp and alive, mixed with the metallic tang of wet stone. Her boots were soaked through, the chill creeping up her calves, but she barely noticed. Her eyes stayed on the jar, on the way the thing inside shifted, stretching itself thin, then coiling back, testing the edges of its prison.
She fumbled for her notebook, tucked into the pocket of her windbreaker, and flipped it open with one hand, the pages flapping wildly. Her pen scratched across the paper, ink smearing in the damp, as she noted the time—9:47 AM—and the location, north cliff pools. “Sample one,” she muttered to herself, her breath fogging in the cold. “Unidentified organic matter. Motile. Responsive.” Her heart thudded, a quick, uneven rhythm, as she glanced back at the pool. There were more in there, she was sure of it. Tiny specks drifting just beneath the surface, catching the weak light that filtered through the fog.
Celeste had come to Pelican Bay for the tidal anomalies, the way the currents here defied every model she’d studied. She’d expected data, numbers, maybe a rare algae bloom. Not this. Not something that moved like it knew she was watching. She capped the jar tighter, her thumb pressing hard against the lid, and slipped it into her pack. The weight of it felt wrong, heavier than it should’ve been, like it was pulling her toward the water’s edge.
She stood, her legs shaky, and stepped back from the pool, the rock slick under her boots. The cliff dropped away just feet from where she stood, the ocean below a endless churn of black and white, spitting foam against the stone. Her skin prickled, not just from the cold, but from the sense of being watched. Not by a person—nothing so simple. It was the water itself, or something in it, staring up at her through the fog. She shook her head, a sharp jerk, and muttered, “Get it together, Cel.” But her hands stayed clenched, her notebook crumpling in her grip.
She turned to head back to her rented cabin, to the makeshift lab she’d set up on the kitchen table, but froze mid-step. A sound—not the wind, not the waves—cut through the air. Low, rhythmic, like a heartbeat underwater, coming from the pool behind her. Her breath hitched, her chest tight, and she forced herself not to look. Not yet. If she looked, she’d see something she couldn’t unsee, and she wasn’t ready for that. Not on day one.
Instead, she walked faster, her boots slipping on the wet stone, the jar in her pack jostling with every step. The fog closed in, wrapping her in a damp, suffocating blanket, and the sound followed, faint but persistent, a pulse that matched the tide.
Back on the cutter, Rena leaned over the railing as Nowak and the crew hauled the first kayaker aboard. The woman’s hoodie was soaked, clinging to her like a second skin, and her face was pale, almost gray, under the spotlight’s glare. Her eyes were wide, unblinking, staring past Rena, past the boat, out to where the fog swallowed the horizon. “Ma’am, can you hear me?” Rena asked, crouching beside her, her voice firm but not unkind. The woman didn’t respond, didn’t even twitch. Her lips moved, though, barely, forming shapes that weren’t words, just air escaping in short, ragged gasps.
Rena’s gloved hand hovered over the woman’s shoulder, hesitating. The air felt heavier now, the salt thicker, coating her tongue with every breath. The second kayaker was still in the water, slumped in his boat, and Nowak was shouting for the line to be secured. But Rena couldn’t shake the feeling that they’d pulled something else aboard with this woman, something that lingered in the damp space between them. “Get her below deck,” she said finally, standing, her boots squeaking on the wet surface. “Warm her up, check for shock.”
Nowak nodded, his face tight, and helped drag the woman toward the hatch. Rena turned back to the water, her hands gripping the rail again, the cold metal grounding her. The second kayaker was closer now, his kayak rocking violently as a wave hit. She could see his face, or part of it—slack, empty, like the woman’s. But his hands were still in the water, fingers trailing through the surface, and for a split second, she swore she saw something ripple beneath them, a shadow too big for the shallow draft under the kayak.
Her breath caught, a sharp pain in her chest, and she leaned forward, eyes straining against the fog. The wave rolled again, obscuring her view, and when it passed, the shadow was gone. If it had ever been there. “Hurry it up!” she snapped, her voice cutting through the wind, though she wasn’t sure if she meant Nowak or herself. The ocean groaned beneath the cutter, a deep, endless sound, and she felt it in her bones: whatever was out there, it wasn’t done with them yet.
The wind sliced across Rena’s face, salty and sharp, carrying the scent of kelp and something sour, like decay just under the surface. Her fingers tightened on the rail, knuckles whitening against the rusted iron, the cold seeping into her bones. She squinted through the fog, the gray veil so thick it seemed to press against her skin, damp and heavy. The kayaker was still out there, maybe twenty yards off the cutter’s port side, his small craft bobbing like a toy in the churn of the Pacific. His hands stayed in the water, dragging through the waves, slow and deliberate, as if he were feeling for something. Or being felt. Her stomach twisted, a tight knot of unease she couldn’t name, and she forced herself to breathe through it, the air tasting of brine and rust.
“Nowak!” she barked, not turning, her voice raw against the gale. “Get that line ready. We’re pulling him in now.”
“On it, LT,” came the reply, muffled by the wind, but she heard the strain in it. Nowak was rattled too, though he’d never say it. She could feel it in the way the deck vibrated under her boots, the way the crew moved a fraction slower than they should, like they were all waiting for something to break. The cutter’s engine growled beneath her, a steady rumble that couldn’t quite drown out the ocean’s deeper moan, a sound that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, curling up through the hull like a whisper.
She leaned over the rail, her chest tight, eyes locked on the kayaker. His face was clearer now as the fog parted for a moment, pale as bone, his mouth half-open like he was muttering something she couldn’t hear. His eyes, though—they weren’t right. Too wide, too empty, staring straight through the water like it was glass, like he could see something down there the rest of them couldn’t. Rena’s hand twitched toward the radio on her belt, instinct telling her to call for backup, but who the hell would come out in this? Pelican Bay’s harbor was a graveyard of rusted boats and half-drunk fishermen; no one else was stupid enough to be out here in June, not with the tide turning the way it did. Not with the stories.
“Line’s set!” Nowak shouted, and she glanced back to see him braced against the gunwale, the rescue line coiled over his shoulder, his face slick with spray. His eyes flicked to the water, then back to her, quick and uneasy. “He’s not moving much, LT. You sure he’s—”
“He’s alive,” she cut him off, sharper than she meant, her own doubt clawing at the back of her mind. She didn’t know that. Not really. But she’d seen enough bodies to know the difference between still and gone, and this guy wasn’t gone. Not yet. “Throw it. Now.”
Nowak nodded, gritting his teeth, and heaved the line out into the gray. It arced over the water, a bright orange slash against the murk, landing just shy of the kayak with a muted splash. The kayaker didn’t flinch, didn’t even look up. His hands stayed in the water, fingers splayed, trailing through the surface like he was petting something. Rena’s skin crawled, a prickle that started at the base of her neck and spread down her spine. She opened her mouth to yell at him—grab the damn line, move, do something—but the words stuck in her throat. Because just then, the water under his hands rippled again, a slow, deliberate swell that had nothing to do with the wind or the tide. It moved against the current, a bulge in the surface, dark and oily, and for a heartbeat, she thought she saw it shift, curl, like a shape testing the boundary between air and depth.
“LT?” Nowak’s voice was tight, almost a whisper, and she realized he’d seen it too. His hands were frozen on the line, his face pale under the brim of his cap. “What the hell was—”
“Pull it in,” she snapped, her voice low, urgent, her eyes never leaving the water. “Get him on board. Now.”
Nowak yanked on the line, dragging it closer to the kayak, but the kayaker didn’t move, didn’t react. His head tilted slightly, like he was listening to something underwater, and then, slowly, his hands lifted from the surface, dripping, trembling. The water smoothed out beneath them, too quickly, unnaturally, and Rena felt a cold sweat break across her forehead despite the wind’s bite. She stepped closer to the rail, her boots slipping on the wet deck, her heart hammering against her ribs. She didn’t know what she was looking for—didn’t want to know—but she couldn’t look away. The ocean stared back, black and endless, its surface a mirror for the fog, reflecting nothing but gray. And yet, she felt it. A weight. A presence. Like the water itself was watching her.
“Grab the damn line!” she shouted finally, her voice cracking, and this time the kayaker’s head jerked up, his blank stare locking onto her. For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t move, thought he’d just sit there until the tide took him under, but then his hands fumbled for the orange rope, clumsy, like he’d forgotten how they worked. He looped it around his chest, his movements slow, jerky, and Nowak started hauling him in, grunting with the effort. The kayak rocked, tipping dangerously, but the man didn’t seem to care. His eyes stayed on Rena, unblinking, and she felt the weight of that gaze like a hand on her throat.
“Got him,” Nowak panted as the kayak bumped against the cutter’s hull, the hollow thunk echoing over the water. Two other crewmen—Jansen and Torres—scrambled over to help, their boots skidding on the deck as they reached down to grab the kayaker’s arms. Rena stayed where she was, her hands still on the rail, her pulse a drumbeat in her ears. She didn’t trust herself to move, not yet. Not until he was on board, until she could see for herself that he was just a man, just a tourist who’d gotten in over his head. Not something else.
They pulled him up, his body limp as a rag doll, his wetsuit glistening with seawater. His feet hit the deck with a wet slap, and he slumped forward, coughing, a ragged, gurgling sound that sent a shiver through her. Torres steadied him, muttering something about hypothermia, but Rena barely heard it. She was watching the man’s hands, still trembling, still dripping, the way his fingers curled inward like they were trying to hold onto something that wasn’t there. She took a step closer, her boots heavy, the air between them thick with the smell of salt and something sharper, metallic, like blood.
“You okay?” she asked, her voice rough, forcing herself to meet his eyes. They were still too wide, still too empty, but now there was something else in them—a flicker, a shadow, like he was seeing her through a film of water. He opened his mouth, and for a moment, she thought he’d speak, thought he’d say something that would make this make sense. But all that came out was a wheeze, a wet rasp, and a trickle of seawater spilled from his lips, pooling on the deck at his feet.
“Get him below,” she said quickly, turning away, her stomach lurching. “Check for shock, same as the other one. And someone get me a blanket or—” She stopped, her breath catching, because as she turned, she caught sight of the water again, just beyond the rail. The fog had lifted slightly, just enough to show the surface, slick and dark, and there, where the kayak had been, the water was moving again. Not a wave, not a swell, but a slow, deliberate circle, like something was stirring just beneath, testing, waiting. Her hand went to the rail again, the metal biting into her palm, and she felt the cutter shift under her, a subtle roll that shouldn’t have been there, not in this shallow water.
“LT?” Jansen’s voice cut through her thoughts, sharp with worry. He was standing by the hatch, one hand on the kayaker’s shoulder, the other gesturing toward the water. “You seeing this?”
She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. Her eyes were locked on that circle, the way it widened, then tightened, a pulse in the ocean’s skin. The air grew heavier, the damp pressing into her lungs, and she swore she could hear it now—a low, rhythmic sound, not quite a hum, not quite a groan, coming up through the water, through the hull, through her boots. It wasn’t the engine. It wasn’t the wind. It was something older, something hungrier, and it made her think of Galveston, of that night when the sea had turned on her, when she’d lost two men to a riptide that shouldn’t have been there. She’d told herself it was bad luck, bad timing, but standing here now, with the Pacific whispering under her feet, she wasn’t so sure.
“Get everyone inside,” she said finally, her voice low, barely above a whisper, but it carried. “Seal the hatches. We’re heading back to port. Now.”
“LT, we’ve got—” Torres started, but she cut him off with a look, her jaw tight, her eyes still on the water.
“I said now,” she repeated, and this time, no one argued. They moved, quick and quiet, dragging the kayaker below, the hatch slamming shut behind them with a metallic clang that echoed in her ears. She stayed where she was, just for a moment longer, her hands still on the rail, her breath shallow. The circle in the water was gone now, or at least she couldn’t see it through the fog, but she felt it. Felt something. And as the cutter turned, the engine roaring as it pushed against the tide, she couldn’t shake the certainty that whatever was out there had seen her too. Had marked her.
The deck lurched under her as they picked up speed, spray kicking up over the bow, cold and stinging against her face. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, tasting salt on her lips, and forced herself to turn away from the water. But even as she headed for the bridge, her boots heavy on the steel, she could feel it behind her—the weight of the ocean, the pull of it, like a hand on her shoulder she couldn’t shake off. And in her mind, unbidden, came the thought she’d been running from since Galveston: maybe the sea didn’t forget. Maybe it never let go.
She pushed through the door to the bridge, the air inside stale and warm, smelling of coffee and oil. Nowak was already there, his hands on the wheel, his face tight as he stared out through the salt-streaked windshield. The radio crackled on the console, static and garbled voices cutting through the hum of the engine, but she ignored it. Her eyes went to the chart table, to the map of Pelican Bay she’d been studying since her transfer three months ago. The drownings were marked in red—three every June, like clockwork, going back decades. She hadn’t wanted to believe it was anything more than coincidence, hadn’t wanted to give in to the whispers she’d heard at the diner, at the pier, about the tide taking its due. But now, with the taste of salt still on her tongue and the memory of that ripple in the water burned into her mind, she wasn’t so sure.
“LT, we’re ten minutes out,” Nowak said, not looking at her, his voice clipped. “Harbor’s gonna want a report on this. What do I tell ‘em?”
“Tell ‘em we pulled two kayakers out of the drink,” she said, her tone flat, but her mind was elsewhere, spinning. “Hypothermia, possible shock. That’s it.”
He glanced at her then, just for a second, his eyes narrowing. “That’s it? You saw what I saw out there. That wasn’t just—”
“We don’t know what it was,” she cut in, sharper than she meant, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “And I’m not putting ghost stories in a report. Not yet.”
Nowak didn’t argue, but the set of his jaw told her he didn’t buy it. She didn’t buy it herself, if she was honest. But she couldn’t think about that now, couldn’t let herself go down that road. Not when she could still feel the ocean’s pull, even here, inside the bridge, with the deck solid under her feet. She moved to the chart table, her fingers tracing the red marks, the dates, the names. Three every June. Always in June. And today was June 1st.
Her breath caught, a sharp, cold thing in her chest, as she realized what that meant. Two kayakers pulled out of the water, both acting like they’d been touched by something they couldn’t name. Two down. One to go. The thought settled into her like a stone, heavy and unmovable, and she felt the weight of every drowning she’d ever failed to stop—Galveston, the faces she couldn’t forget, the hands she couldn’t reach. She’d come to Pelican Bay to start over, to prove she could still do this, still save people. But now, staring at those red marks, feeling the cutter tremble under her as the tide pushed against them, she wasn’t sure she could outrun whatever was coming.
“LT?” Nowak again, quieter this time, almost hesitant. “You okay?”
She didn’t answer, didn’t look at him. Her hand stayed on the chart, the paper crinkling under her fingers, damp from the spray she hadn’t wiped off. Outside, the fog pressed against the windshield, a gray wall that seemed to breathe, and beneath it, she could hear the ocean, its endless, patient rhythm, pulling at the hull, at her. She wanted to say she was fine, wanted to believe it, but the lie wouldn’t come. Instead, she straightened, her jaw tight, and turned to the radio, static hissing like a voice just out of reach.
“Call ahead,” she said finally, her voice low, steady, even as her pulse raced. “Tell harbor we’ve got two for medical. And tell ‘em to keep an eye on the water. Something’s not right out there.”
Nowak nodded, reaching for the mic, but she saw the doubt in his eyes, the same doubt she felt clawing at her own mind. As the cutter pushed toward shore, the engine straining against the current, she couldn’t shake the feeling that they weren’t just bringing two survivors back to Pelican Bay. They were bringing something else. Something that had been waiting in the deep, patient as the tide, for June to come again. And now that it was here, she didn’t know if she could stop it—or if she’d even get the chance to try before it claimed its third.
The cutter groaned as it sliced through the swell, the bow dipping into troughs of black water that slapped against the hull with a sound like wet hands clapping. Rena stood at the helm, her boots braced against the deck’s subtle pitch, her eyes fixed on the gray smear of Pelican Bay growing closer through the fog. The air was heavy, tasting of salt and something sharper, like rusted metal left out in the rain. Her uniform clung to her skin, damp from spray and sweat, and her fingers flexed around the wheel, though Nowak had taken over comms. His voice crackled through the static, relaying their position to harbor, but she wasn’t listening to the words. She was listening to the ocean beneath them, the way it churned, restless, like it knew something they didn’t.
Behind her, the two survivors sat huddled on the bench, wrapped in foil blankets that crinkled every time they shivered. The woman, mid-thirties, hair plastered to her scalp like seaweed, hadn’t spoken since they’d pulled her from the dinghy. Her eyes kept darting to the water beyond the rail, not with fear, but with something else—something hungry, like she was waiting for it to call her back. The man, younger, maybe a college kid on a summer trip, kept muttering under his breath, words Rena couldn’t catch over the engine’s rumble. She didn’t want to hear them anyway. Not after what she’d seen in their faces when they’d first hauled them aboard: not relief, not gratitude, but a kind of blank resignation, like they’d already given up on land.
“Harbor’s got medics standing by,” Nowak said, clipping the mic back to the console. He turned to her, his broad face pale under the brim of his cap, the stubble on his jaw catching the weak light from the dash. “They’re asking if we need containment. Said the last call sounded… off.”
Rena didn’t answer right away. Her hand tightened on the wheel, knuckles whitening, as the cutter hit a rough patch, the deck shuddering underfoot. Containment. The word stuck in her throat like a fishbone. She’d used it before, back in Galveston, when a rescue turned into a recovery, when the bodies they pulled from the Gulf had been too long gone to save. But this wasn’t that. This was two living people, breathing, shivering, staring at nothing. And still, the word fit. Something about them felt wrong, like they’d brought a piece of the deep back with them, lodged in their bones.
“Tell ‘em no,” she said finally, her voice rough, scraping against the hum of the engine. “Not yet. Just medics. We get ‘em to shore, let the docs figure out what’s what.”
Nowak nodded, but she caught the flicker of unease in his eyes before he turned back to the console. He didn’t argue. He never did. That was the problem with Nowak—he followed orders even when he shouldn’t. Even when she wasn’t sure herself.
The fog thickened as they neared the breakwater, the harbor lights flickering like distant candles through the haze. The air grew colder, a damp chill that crept under her collar and settled in her chest. She could smell the town now, the faint tang of diesel from the fishing boats, the rot of low tide mixing with the ever-present salt. Pelican Bay’s silhouette emerged slowly, the jagged line of the pier stretching out like a broken finger, the cluster of weathered buildings hunched against the wind. She’d been here six months, transferred after Galveston chewed her up and spat her out, and still, the place felt like it was waiting to do the same. Every summer, the same story: three drownings, always in June, always tourists. She’d read the reports before she even unpacked her duffel. Thought she’d break the pattern. Thought she’d be the one to stop it. Now, staring at the shore through the mist, she felt the weight of that arrogance pressing down, heavy as the tide.
“Lt. Okafor,” Nowak said, quieter now, almost hesitant. He was standing at her shoulder, close enough she could feel the heat off him in the cold. “The guy’s talking again. Keeps saying something about… hearing it. Out there.”
Her stomach twisted, a slow, sick lurch. She didn’t turn around. Didn’t want to see the kid’s face, didn’t want to see whatever was behind his eyes. “Hearing what?” she asked, keeping her gaze on the harbor, on the steady blink of the lighthouse beam cutting through the fog.
“Dunno. He just keeps saying it. ‘I heard it. I heard it.’ Over and over. Like he’s stuck on repeat.”
Rena swallowed, tasting salt on her tongue, and forced her hands to stay steady on the wheel. “Shock,” she said, the word flat, final. “Hypothermia. Messes with the head. He’ll snap out of it once he’s warm.”
Nowak didn’t reply. She could feel his doubt, though, thick as the mist around them. And she felt her own, too, gnawing at the edges of her mind. She’d seen shock before. Seen men and women pulled from the water babbling nonsense, eyes glassy with cold and fear. But this wasn’t that. This was something else, something that made the back of her neck prickle, made her want to turn the cutter around and head back out to sea, away from whatever was waiting on shore.
The harbor loomed closer, the breakwater’s concrete slabs slick with algae, the waves slapping against them with a hollow, hungry sound. Dockhands were already moving, dark shapes in yellow slickers, their shouts muffled by the wind as they readied the lines. Rena eased the cutter in, the engine throttling down to a low growl, the deck steadying underfoot. Medics waited at the edge of the pier, their gurneys glinting under the sodium lamps, faces obscured by the fog. She cut the engine, the sudden quiet deafening, broken only by the lap of water against the hull and the distant cry of a gull, sharp and mournful.
“Get ‘em off,” she told Nowak, stepping back from the helm. Her boots thudded on the deck, the sound too loud in the stillness. “I’ll handle the report.”
He nodded, moving toward the survivors, his shoulders squared like he was bracing for a fight. Rena watched as he helped the woman up first, her foil blanket slipping as she stood, her bare feet pale and pruned against the dark metal. She didn’t resist, didn’t even look at Nowak, just shuffled forward, her eyes still on the water beyond the rail. The man was harder, muttering louder now, his hands twitching like he wanted to grab something, hold onto it. Nowak had to half-carry him, his arm around the kid’s waist, guiding him toward the gangway.
Rena turned away before they reached the pier, her chest tight, her breath shallow. She busied herself with the log, flipping open the weathered binder on the console, her pen scratching against the paper as she noted the time, the coordinates, the condition of the survivors. Routine. Structure. It was the only thing that kept her grounded, the only thing that made sense when the rest of it didn’t. But her hand shook as she wrote, the ink smudging where her thumb brushed the page, and she couldn’t stop hearing the kid’s voice in her head. I heard it. I heard it.
“Lt. Okafor!” One of the medics, a stocky woman with gray streaks in her hair, was waving from the pier, her voice cutting through the fog. “We need you over here. Now.”
Rena’s gut clenched. She slammed the log shut, the sound echoing in the quiet, and strode across the deck, her boots slipping slightly on the wet metal. The air bit at her face as she stepped onto the gangway, the wood creaking under her weight, the smell of creosote and saltwater sharp in her nose. The medic met her halfway, her face pale under the brim of her cap, her gloved hands fidgeting at her sides.
“What is it?” Rena asked, keeping her voice even, though her pulse was already climbing again.
“It’s the woman,” the medic said, her words clipped, tight. “She’s not… responding. Not like she should. We’ve got her on the gurney, vitals are stable, but she won’t stop staring at the water. And her hands—” She broke off, her jaw working like she was chewing on the rest of the sentence.
“Her hands what?” Rena pressed, stepping closer, the cold seeping deeper into her bones.
“They’re moving. Like she’s trying to swim. Right there on the gurney. Like she’s still in it.”
Rena didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. Her throat felt like it was closing, the air too thick to breathe. She pushed past the medic, her boots thudding on the pier, the fog swirling around her like a living thing, clinging to her skin. The gurney was a few yards ahead, flanked by two other medics, their faces grim under the harsh light of a portable lamp. The woman lay flat, straps across her chest and legs, her arms free, her hands twitching, fingers curling and uncurling in slow, deliberate strokes, like she was pushing through water that wasn’t there. Her eyes were wide, unblinking, fixed on the black expanse beyond the pier, and for a moment, Rena swore she saw something reflected in them—something dark, shifting, too vast to name.
“Get her to the clinic,” Rena said, her voice rougher than she meant it to be. “Now. And keep her restrained. Both of them.”
The medics nodded, moving quickly, the gurney’s wheels rattling over the uneven wood as they pushed toward the shore. Rena stayed where she was, rooted to the pier, the cold creeping up her legs like a tide of its own. She could hear the ocean behind her, the slow, relentless pull of it, the way it hissed against the pilings, patient, waiting. She wanted to turn, to look out at the water, to see if something was looking back. But she didn’t. Couldn’t. Instead, she forced herself to walk toward the harbor office, her hands clenched at her sides, the fog wrapping around her like a shroud.
Inside, the office smelled of stale coffee and damp paper, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, casting stark shadows across the cluttered desk. Rena didn’t sit. Couldn’t. She stood by the window, staring out at the pier through the streaked glass, the fog blurring the edges of everything until it looked like the world was dissolving. Her reflection stared back, hollow-eyed, the lines around her mouth deeper than she remembered. She’d come to Pelican Bay to start over, to prove she could still do this, still save people after Galveston. But standing there, the weight of the night pressing down, she wasn’t sure she could save anyone. Not even herself.
The door creaked open behind her, and she turned, her hand instinctively dropping to her side, though there was no weapon there, just habit from too many years on edge. It was Nowak, his cap off now, his hair matted with sweat, his face still pale. He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there, holding a folded piece of paper, the edges frayed like it had been pulled from a notebook.
“Found this in the dinghy,” he said finally, his voice low, almost a whisper. “Tucked under the seat. Thought you’d want to see it before I logged it.”
Rena took the paper, her fingers brushing his, cold against cold. She unfolded it slowly, the creases stiff with dried salt, the handwriting shaky, scrawled in what looked like black marker. The words didn’t make sense at first, just fragments, half-sentences, smeared where water had gotten to them. But as she read, her breath caught, a sharp, jagged thing in her chest.
It’s calling us. Always three. June knows. The water remembers. Don’t fight it. It’s older than us. Older than the bay. It’ll take what it’s owed.
Her hands tightened on the paper, crumpling the edges, the ink smudging under her thumb. She looked up at Nowak, saw the same unease in his eyes, the same question she didn’t want to ask. Because she’d read the reports. Knew the pattern. Three drownings. Always in June. Always tourists. And now, two survivors who didn’t feel like survivors at all, and a note that read like a warning—or a promise.
“Log it,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. “But keep a copy. And don’t—don’t let this get out. Not yet.”
Nowak nodded, taking the paper back, his fingers lingering on it like he didn’t want to let it go. He turned to leave, the door creaking again as he stepped out, but Rena stayed by the window, her eyes on the fog, on the black water beyond. The ocean was out there, waiting, its rhythm steady, unhurried, like it had all the time in the world. And in that moment, she felt it—felt the pull of it, deep in her bones, like a current she couldn’t fight. June had just begun. Two were already marked. And she knew, with a certainty that chilled her more than the fog ever could, that the third was coming. Not tomorrow, not next week, but soon. And when it did, she wasn’t sure she’d be ready for what the tide would bring back.