Chapter 14 · The Switch That Doesn't Answer

"Read it again," Marco said, "and tell me which word you don't understand." I had the appendix in both hands already, cold enough off the counting-room table that the staple bit my thumb. Occupancy Addendum, Section Four. Fourteen tides, his signature under mine, and a clause buried on page three that turned my cot in the counting room into his call — who slept where, who watched what, who got locked out when the tide clock hit zero.

"I understand every word," I said.

"That's the problem." I ripped it down the staple. Both halves. The cold room took the sound and made it sharper, like breaking ice. He didn't move for a second. Just watched the paper fall between us, one half landing on the scale, the other skating under the hanging carcasses where the fans kept the air moving at eighteen degrees.

"You just tore a federal filing," he said.

"I tore your filing. There's a difference. Mine says occupancy. Yours says ownership with a nicer font." His jaw did that thing — the muscle by his ear that jumps when he's deciding whether to grab something or somebody. He stepped in instead.