In return, the town gives the bay what it asks for. Not often. Just enough. A lost kayaker here. A solo sailor there. Every few years, a stranger who doesn’t read the signs. And every single time, the bay takes them cleanly, without fuss, without evidence. The Coast Guard calls them “missing, presumed drowned.” The families grieve. The town holds a memorial. The water goes still.
Clara turns and walks back to the store. She locks the door. She flips the sign to . On the corkboard behind the register, Paul’s photograph catches the light. She doesn’t look at it. baysafe
The ripple fades. The water goes flat. The smell of roses recedes. In return, the town gives the bay what it asks for
The sign that says:
She used to explain it to tourists with a kind of gentle, rehearsed patience. Strong currents. Unpredictable weather. We just like to be careful. But the last tourist who asked was a young man named Paul, three summers ago. He’d laughed and said, “Baysafe lives up to its name, huh?” He took a kayak out at dusk. They found the kayak the next morning, floating upside down a mile offshore. No paddle. No Paul. The Coast Guard called off the search after forty-eight hours. A lost kayaker here
