I Recover Things The Navy Pretends Don't Exist.

I was checking the descent line for the third time when Jasper came over in his drysuit. Dawn was just coming up behind the clouds. The water was dark and flat enough to look calm, which is how the ocean gets people to make bad decisions. The Ferryman rolled under us. Not much.

Just enough to make every loose tool slide a little before settling back where it started. Jasper had his rebreather strapped on and was working one glove into place. He looked at the line and then at me.

"Still worried?"

"I'm checking it."

"You checked it."

"I checked it again."

"That's different?"

"It is when you're the one going down."

He laughed. Jasper could make almost anything sound like a routine inconvenience. We were forty miles off the central Oregon coast over Heceta Bank, with a hundred and eighty feet of cold water between us and the rocky shelf. The submersible was down there somewhere. The client wanted its sealed recovery canister brought up before another vessel found it, or the Navy did, depending on which version of the job description you believed.

Jasper believed in the version with the hazard pay. "The money makes this worthwhile," he said.

"The money makes you willing."

"Same thing."

"No."

He finished the glove and held out his arm. I checked the wrist seal, then moved to the harness. The buckles were tight. The tether was clipped in. The air hose ran clean from the reel to the connection at his back.

I checked the closed-circuit rebreather even though Jasper had already checked it and I had watched him check it.

"You worry more about the client than you do the water," he said.

"I worry about both."

"No, you worry about the client. The water's just cold."

"The client is paying us to bring something back."

"Exactly. That's why I'm going down."

He said it like that settled everything. Maybe for him it did. Jasper liked dangerous work better when somebody else had already put a price on it. I checked the descent line one more time. Then I looked at him.

"Ready?"

"Ready."

I lowered him over the side. The first few feet were always awkward. The boat moved under him and the line pulled at the harness until his weight found the water. Then the surface closed over his shoulders. His helmet light came on below the chop, a pale circle moving down through green water.

I kept one hand on the tether and the other near the communications box. The reel turned slow. The air hose followed beside the line. I watched both of them because a person can survive a bad signal longer than a bad line, but not by much. Jasper's voice came through the headset.

"Going down clean."

"Copy."

He repeated the status because that was what he did when he was getting ready to work.

"Going down clean."

The line went out through my glove. Twenty feet. Then forty. The water pulled at it and made the reel complain in small metal clicks. I kept the tension steady and watched the depth readout.

At eighty feet the morning light had mostly disappeared. At a hundred, the water turned black around the camera. Jasper's light moved below him like a flashlight in a closet.

"How's the water?"

I asked. "Cold."

"Useful report."

"It's wet too."

"Keep your line clear."

"Keeping my line clear."

I could hear his breathing through the comms, slow and even. That was the part I wanted. The client didn't care how calm a diver sounded. The client cared about the canister. The client cared about getting it back before anybody else knew where the submersible was.

I cared about Jasper not getting trapped under a hundred and eighty feet of water. The depth readout reached a hundred and eighty. The line stopped paying out.

"At the shelf," Jasper said.

"Copy. Check your tether."

"Tether's holding."

"Air hose?"

"Holding."

He moved his light across the bottom. The camera showed broken rock, silt, and a dark shape half buried beyond the reach of the beam. Then the light steadied.

"Sub's intact," he said.

I leaned closer to the screen even though it didn't make the picture any better. The research submersible rested on its side against the rocky shelf. One section of the hull was scraped pale. The hatch was still closed.

"Hatch?"

"Sealed."

"Can you get to the canister?"

"I can get to the sub."

"That wasn't the question."

"I know. I'm working on it."

He moved closer. The light passed over the hatch and stopped there. For a few seconds I heard only his breathing and the low mechanical noise from the Ferryman. Then Jasper said, "There's a diver standing on the hull." I looked at the screen.

The light moved. The shape stayed where it was.

"What kind of diver?"

"One that's standing on the hull."

"Jasper."

"Yeah. I heard you."

I looked past the equipment toward the water. There were no running lights out there. No other boat showed on the radar. We were alone for forty miles in every direction, or close enough to alone that the difference didn't matter.

"Does he have tanks?"

I asked. "No."

"Visible tether?"

"Not that I can see."

"Then what are you looking at?"

The shape turned slightly in the camera. It was standing on the curved metal hull as if the water wasn't there. The suit looked old. Not old in the way dive gear gets old. Older than that.

Brass helmet. Thick glass. Hoses trailing behind it.

"Hardhat suit," Jasper said.

"Connected to what?"

"Nothing."

"Check again."

"I am checking."

The hoses drifted behind the figure. They moved with the water, but they didn't connect to an air line or a tank or anything else. They just ended in the dark.

"There's no supply," Jasper said.

"Back away from it."

The figure's helmet began to turn. Jasper stopped talking. I could see the brass glass facing the camera now. There wasn't enough light to see through it. Maybe there was nothing behind the glass.

Maybe the reflection just made it look black. "Jasper, back away."

The figure turned farther. "Abort the dive and come back now."

"Abort the dive and come back—" His transmission cut off.

I waited for the rest of the sentence. The comms gave me a burst of static and then the sound of water moving against something hard.

"Jasper?"

Nothing. I keyed the microphone again.

"Jasper, report."

The line stayed tight in my hand. The air hose trembled once. Then it went still.

"Jasper."

I started hauling. The winch motor kicked in and the tether came back over the roller. I kept calling him while I pulled. I told him to answer. I told him to confirm the line.

I told him to come back now. None of it changed anything. The first hundred feet took longer than it should have. The line felt heavy. I stopped twice to check the reel and once to check the air hose.

There was no snag that I could find. No sudden drop in pressure. No sign that the harness had caught on the wreck. I kept hauling. After ten minutes my gloves were wet inside.

After fifteen, my shoulder started giving me trouble. I switched hands and kept going. The boat rolled under my boots, and the tether came up in slow black loops.

"Jasper, answer me."

The headset returned my voice in a flat little echo. At twenty minutes the harness broke the surface. It came over the rail without him. For a second I thought he was still below it. Maybe the line had slipped through the harness.

Maybe the camera had missed something. I grabbed the straps and pulled the gear onto the deck. Every buckle was cinched tight. The air hose had been cut. I looked at the cut end first.

It wasn't torn. It wasn't pulled loose. The hose had been severed clean through, and there was no piece of it hanging from the harness. I checked the rebreather. The connections were still locked.

The straps were still in place. There was no blood on the webbing and no blood on the deck. I checked the water beside the boat. Nothing. Then I checked the harness again because there wasn't anything else to check.

The comms were dead. The line was intact above the cut hose. The equipment hadn't failed. Jasper hadn't climbed out of it. He hadn't fallen out of it.

There was no physical trace of him except the gear he had been wearing. I carried the harness across the deck and set it beside the Ferryman's wheelhouse door. I didn't coil it up or start taking it apart. I left every buckle cinched and the cut air hose lying against the deck. The empty harness lies beside the Ferryman's wheelhouse door with every buckle cinched and its air hose cut.

I left the harness where it was and went into the wheelhouse for the radio. The encrypted set was mounted under the main console. It had a cracked screen and three switches that all looked important. I knew which one to use. I just didn't know if Sydney was going to answer.

I keyed the transmitter. "Meridian, this is Ferryman. Come back."

There was a burst of static. Then Sydney said, "Go ahead." No question about Jasper. No question about whether he might still be alive. She didn't ask if I'd found him or if the line had failed or if I needed medical support.

She said, "Did you see a man standing on the hull?" I looked through the wheelhouse windows at the empty deck. The harness was still beside the door. Jasper's cut air hose lay against the boards like somebody had put it there carefully.

"Yes."

"Describe the suit."

"It had a brass helmet. Thick glass. Hoses behind it."

"Did you see a tank?"

"No."

"An air line?"

"No."

"Was it connected to the submersible?"

"Not that I could see."

Sydney didn't answer. This wasn't a normal pause. Sydney paused when she was choosing a word or deciding how much of the truth I was allowed to have. I'd worked with her long enough to know the difference. The radio gave a faint hiss between us.

I could hear the Ferryman's engine turning under the deck. "What was it?"

I asked. She still didn't answer. I looked at the depth display and then at the harness. There are only so many reasons for somebody to go silent on an open radio. Sydney didn't lose her words.

She kept them locked up until they were useful. "Meridian."

"Listen to me," she said.

"The client wants a sealed recovery canister from inside the research submersible."

"I know what the client wants."

"Do not bring aboard anything that asks to come aboard."

I waited for the rest of it. There wasn't one.

"Anything?"

"Anything."

"You want me to leave the canister down there?"

"No. Bring back the canister. Do not bring aboard anything that asks to come aboard."

She said it like she was reading a safety instruction. Maybe she'd said it before. Maybe she had a card in front of her with the words printed on it. Sydney liked written procedures because paper didn't interrupt her.

"What does that mean?"

"It means exactly what I said."

"You sent us down there without telling us there was something on the wreck."

"I sent you to recover the canister."

"You knew about the diver."

"I knew there was a risk."

"You knew enough to ask about the suit before you asked if Jasper was alive."

Another pause. This one was longer. Then she said, "The recovery codes are Grey Lantern, Black Current, Seven Seal." I wrote them on the back of the weather report with a grease pencil. The paper was damp and the letters ran together when I pressed too hard.

"Say them again."

"Grey Lantern, Black Current, Seven Seal."

I repeated them. She waited until I finished.

"If anything gives you a code but fails a personal question, it is not me."

"What personal question?"

"One you and I both know."

"Which one?"

"Use your judgment."

That was the sort of answer Sydney gave when the answer mattered more than she wanted to explain. It also wasn't an answer.

"What took Jasper?"

"I don't know."

"You know what the suit is."

"I didn't say that."

"You know what it is?"

"I said I don't know what took Jasper."

That wasn't the same thing. She knew it and I knew it. The radio hissed again.

"Abort the job," I said.

"No."

"Release me from the recovery."

"No."

"Sydney."

"The next slack tide is the operational window. If you complete the recovery alone before then, the client will authorize double pay."

I looked down at Jasper's harness. One of the buckles still had a smear of silt caught under it. It was a small thing. I kept looking at it anyway.

"You sent us into a job you hadn't explained."

"I gave you the recovery parameters."

"You left out the part where something walks around on the hull."

"I left out a condition I believed you could handle."

"Jasper couldn't handle it."

She didn't answer that. I shut off the transmitter. There wasn't anything else I could get from her. Sydney wouldn't identify the figure. She wouldn't authorize an abort.

She'd offered double pay like money was going to make the empty harness less empty. It didn't. I brought the harness farther against the wheelhouse wall and checked the buckles again. They were still closed. I reset the tether on the reel and ran the line through the roller.

The winch motor started with a heavy click. Then it stopped. I checked the connection twice because I didn't want the equipment failing while I was below. The tether was clean. The air hose was a different problem.

There was no Jasper to attach it to. I put on the rest of my gear anyway. The deck had gone quiet by then. The water was still moving under the boat, but the wind had dropped and there wasn't much slap against the hull. I could hear the metal fittings tapping together whenever the Ferryman rolled.

I was going to descend alone. That wasn't because Sydney had convinced me. She hadn't. It was because she wouldn't release me from the job, and because the canister was still inside the submersible, and because leaving it down there didn't bring Jasper back. Those were three different reasons.

I used all of them. I was checking the harness connection when the sonar gave a soft tone from inside the wheelhouse. I turned toward the screen. The contact was below us. At first it looked like a bad return.

The image showed something rising from the direction of the submersible, but it wasn't moving like a diver. There was no steady approach and no clean change in depth. It came up slowly. Then it stopped. Then it came up again.

I watched the screen because there wasn't anything else to do. The mark had no clear swimming profile. It didn't drift with the current either. It was coming up from the wreck under its own direction, although I couldn't see what direction that was. The sonar display refreshed and gave me the same shape in a new place.

I keyed the radio. "Meridian, this is Ferryman."

Sydney answered right away. "Report."

"Sonar contact rising from the submersible."

"Describe the movement."

"Slow. It isn't swimming."

"Is it approaching the vessel?"

"Not yet."

I watched the mark move again. It rose without speeding up. That was the part I didn't like. A diver could move slowly. A diver could stop.

But a diver still had to do something to move through the water. "It doesn't have the profile of a diver," I said.

Sydney was quiet. "Meridian."

"Do not descend."

I looked at the gear beside me. "You just refused the abort."

"Do not descend."

"What changed?"

"The contact."

That was all she gave me. The mark kept rising. I tracked it on the sonar as it passed beneath the keel. The screen showed the distance closing in small steps. I moved to the exterior controls and locked the aft door.

Then I crossed to the other side and locked the wheelhouse exit. The equipment stayed ready on the deck. The tether was reset. My gloves were beside the harness. The winch was powered and waiting.

I kept watching the screen. The contact stopped directly beneath the Ferryman, and I locked the exterior doors before waiting through the dark.

The contact stayed beneath the Ferryman for the next three hours. I kept the sonar screen in view and the wheelhouse door shut. Every few minutes the mark moved a little, then stopped again. It didn't come up. It didn't go away.

It just stayed there under the keel like it had found the right place and didn't see any reason to leave. I tried the radio twice. The first time Sydney didn't answer. The second time she came on and said, "Do not descend."

"I know."

"Do not open the doors."

"I know that too."

Then she went quiet. Sydney was good at going quiet when she wanted somebody else to sit with the problem. I stayed in the wheelhouse and listened to the contact remain under the boat. At three in the morning, the sonar screen refreshed. The mark was gone.

I looked at the display for a few seconds because I figured it had to be a bad return. The image had been there all night. It couldn't just disappear because the equipment decided it was finished. Then something moved outside the wheelhouse window. I turned toward the stern.

The figure was standing on the swim platform. The deck lights were still on, but they didn't reach much past the rail. The platform sat low over the water, and seawater ran off the figure's suit in thin streams. It dripped from the shoulders and the gloves. It ran down the legs and collected around the boots before spilling through the grating.

The suit was Jasper's. It had the same heavy layers, the same harness, and the same hoses trailing behind the brass helmet. The gear looked exactly like the gear I'd pulled back over the rail without him. Even the cut air hose was there, hanging from the side of the harness. I didn't move toward the door.

I had one hand on the wheelhouse handle already, and I kept it there. The helmet glass was fogged from the inside. That was the first thing that made it different. The brass was dark with water and the glass had gone gray. Not black like the diver's visor on the screen.

Fogged. Like somebody inside it was breathing. The figure moved. It didn't walk. Not exactly.

One leg shifted forward and locked. Then the other followed. The movement came in slow jerks, like a machine with a bad gear. The hoses dragged across the platform behind it. The figure reached the rail and lifted one gloved hand.

I could see the fingers close around the metal. The radio crackled behind me.

"Chandler."

I looked at the set. The transmitter light was off. I hadn't keyed it. The voice came through anyway.

"Let me back aboard."

It was Jasper's voice. Not a voice that sounded like Jasper. His voice. The same flat edge it had when he was talking through the dive mask. The same place where he put the weight on aboard.

I kept holding the door shut. The figure stayed at the rail.

"Chandler. Let me back aboard."

I looked at the helmet. The glass was still clouded from inside. There was no face behind it that I could see. Just a pale smear moving once and then stopping. I reached for the radio.

Sydney had given me the question because she knew a false Meridian could use a voice. She hadn't told me what answer to expect. She'd just said to use something we both knew. I keyed the transmitter.

"Where did you and Jasper eat before the job?"

The radio answered with a burst of static. The figure didn't turn. It kept one hand on the rail and stood there with water running off the suit.

"Let me back aboard."

The voice came from the radio again. Maybe it came from the helmet too. I couldn't tell. The wheelhouse was small enough that the two sounds sat on top of each other.

"You heard me," I said.

"Where did you and Jasper eat before the job?"

Nothing. The figure's head moved a few inches. The brass helmet turned toward the wheelhouse. The glass stayed fogged. Then the radio said, "Let me back aboard."

I checked the locks. The wheelhouse door was closed. The aft door was locked. The exterior controls were where I'd left them. The Ferryman was still rolling under the figure, and the wet suit made a soft scraping noise each time the platform rose and fell.

"Grey Lantern," the radio said.

I stopped looking at the locks. The voice had changed only in the words. It was still Jasper's voice. Still the same breath and the same roughness. But the code came out clean.

"Grey Lantern," it repeated.

That was the first recovery code. Sydney had told me the codes were Grey Lantern, Black Current, Seven Seal. The figure had the first one right. I looked through the window again. It had both hands on the rail now.

"Where did you and Jasper eat before the job?"

I asked. The helmet tilted down. A line of water ran from the top of it and dropped off the front rim. The hand on the rail tightened. The glove creaked against the metal.

"Chandler," it said.

I waited. "Let me back aboard."

It didn't answer the question. It just kept saying the same thing. That was enough for me. I reached over and shut off the deck lights. The platform disappeared.

The radio kept going. "Let me back aboard."

I couldn't see the figure anymore, but I could hear water moving against the hull. The voice came through the speaker with the same calm tone Jasper had used underwater. There was no panic in it. No anger. It didn't threaten me or ask what happened.

It just asked to come aboard. "Chandler. Let me back aboard."

I kept one hand on the door handle and the other on the radio. The wheelhouse windows turned black. Beyond them there was only the reflection of the instrument panel and my own face floating over it. The voice continued.

"Let me back aboard."

I thought about the harness lying against the wall. The buckles had been closed when I pulled it up. The air hose had been cut clean through. Jasper hadn't come out of that gear. I knew what happened.

The thing outside was wearing his suit. That wasn't the same thing. I left the lights off for maybe a minute. Maybe longer. Time worked differently when you were standing in a dark wheelhouse listening to a dead man's voice ask for the door.

The sonar screen kept glowing beside me. The mark hadn't returned.

"Where did you and Jasper eat before the job?"

I asked one more time. The radio hissed. Then it said, "Grey Lantern." I didn't answer. The voice waited a few seconds and said, "Let me back aboard."

I reached for the deck-light switch. The first bank came on over the stern. The platform appeared in pieces. The rail. The wet grating.

The ladder leading down toward the water. There was nobody there. I turned on the rest of the lights and checked the platform through both windows. Nothing stood beside the rail. Nothing was on the ladder.

The water below the swim platform moved in the dark and slapped against the hull like it had been doing all night. The radio was quiet. I opened the wheelhouse door but didn't step through it. I kept my hand on the handle and looked down at the platform. A wet ring of saltwater remained where the figure had stood.

I pulled the wheelhouse door shut and keyed the radio. "Sydney, start talking."

There was a short burst of static. Then she said, "What did it say?"

"It used Jasper's voice."

"I know."

"It gave me the first recovery code."

Sydney didn't answer right away. The platform was empty outside the window. The wet ring was still there on the grating, and water kept running through it whenever the Ferryman rolled. It looked like somebody had set down a bucket and then picked it up again.

"Grey Lantern," I said.

"It said Grey Lantern. Then it asked me to let it aboard."

"Did you invite it?"

"No."

"Did you touch it?"

"No."

"Then you still have a chance."

That wasn't the answer I wanted. It was the sort of answer Sydney gave when the answer underneath it was worse.

"What is it?"

"The suit is a Fetch."

"I know what you called it."

"You don't know what that means."

"Then tell me."

The radio hissed between us. I could hear the boat working under the deck and the low vibration from the engine. Sydney had gone quiet again. She paused before dangerous information. I'd learned that much from her.

The pause didn't mean she was thinking. It meant she was deciding how much damage the truth was going to do.

"The research submersible wasn't a research craft," she said.

I looked at the sonar screen. The contact was still gone. The display showed empty water under the keel and a pale line where the bottom should have been.

"It carried the canister," I said.

"It carried a containment canister."

"For what?"

"The remains of a dive crew."

I waited. Sydney said, "They were lost during a recovery operation in nineteen sixty-two."

"Lost where?"

"Off this coast."

"Why was that in a research sub?"

"It wasn't a research sub."

"You already said that."

"It was built to carry the canister and keep it contained."

There are a lot of ways to say a thing isn't a thing. Sydney had picked the one that made the least sense and kept using it. The submersible had a hatch, a control station, and enough equipment to make it look like a small research vessel. But none of that meant it had been built for research.

"What was in the canister?"

I asked. "The remains of the crew."

"Why were they contained?"

"Because they didn't stay dead."

I looked through the glass at the wet ring. The water inside it had spread into the grooves in the grating. The ring was already breaking apart. That didn't make it less real.

"What happened to them?"

"The recovery went wrong. The crew brought something up from the wreck. After that, they drowned."

"All of them?"

"Yes."

"And then they became Fetches?"

"One Fetch."

"There's one suit out there."

"The men became one thing."

That was the kind of sentence that needed more explaining. Sydney didn't give it to me. She expected the short version to hold.

"Why didn't you tell Jasper and me?"

"Because you wouldn't have taken the job."

"You're right."

"I needed the canister recovered."

"You needed somebody to go down there."

"Yes."

She said it without changing her voice. That was the part that made it worse. If she'd sounded sorry, I could've called it a lie or a weakness or something useful. Instead she sounded like she was reading the next line on a form.

"The Fetch can't come up on its own," she said.

"It came up."

"It took Jasper."

I didn't say anything. "The thing in the suit cannot ascend without a living diver," Sydney said.

"It used Jasper to reach the surface. It can use his appearance. It can use his voice. It can use whatever part of him it took."

I looked at the harness beside the wall. The cut air hose was still lying against the deck. I'd left it there because I hadn't known what else to do with it. Now it looked like evidence in a room where nobody was going to be charged.

"It took him during the descent."

"Yes."

"And it put his suit back on."

"It doesn't need to wear the suit. The suit is part of the shape it uses."

"What does it want from me?"

"It wants you to carry it aboard."

"I didn't invite it."

"That isn't the only way."

The wheelhouse windows had started to gray over. Fog was coming in from the water. It moved low across the stern and gathered around the lights. The deck lamps made bright spots in it, but the fog swallowed everything between the spots.

"Then what is the other way?"

I asked. "Contact with a living diver."

I looked at my gloves on the console. They were still wet inside from hauling Jasper's gear up. I hadn't taken them off when the figure appeared. I hadn't gotten close enough to touch it.

"Or a living man's line," Sydney said.

The tether on the reel gave a small jerk. It wasn't much. Just a quick movement through the cable. The line tightened and the roller made a dry metal sound.

"The tether is still connected to it," I said.

"Yes."

"You knew that?"

"I suspected."

"You sent me down on a line it could use to come aboard."

"The line was connected to the submersible."

"And now it's connected to the Fetch."

"Yes."

There was another jerk. This one ran through the line and into the reel. The motor wasn't running, but the cable shifted anyway. It pulled a short length over the roller and stopped. I moved closer to the console.

The wet ring outside had almost disappeared into the grating. The fog pressed against the windows now. It made the deck lights look farther away than they were.

"If it gets onto the line, does that count as contact?"

"Not by itself."

"Why not?"

"The line has to be carried aboard."

"Or hauled in."

"Yes."

"So if I bring the line back, I bring it with me."

"If the Fetch is holding it."

"And if it gets to the end?"

"It can cross through the line."

That was the first thing she'd said that sounded like a rule instead of a warning.

"What happens if I touch it?"

"It boards."

"What happens if I invite it?"

"It boards."

"What happens if I leave it down there?"

"It stays contained if the canister stays sealed."

I looked at the equipment on the deck. The hydraulic winch sat beside the reel with its controls under a plastic cover. The recovery cable was already rigged. I'd planned to bring the canister up by hand once Jasper cleared the hatch. That had been the plan when the job was a job.

"What happens if I lift the canister without the line?"

Sydney paused. "Chandler."

"What happens?"

"The Fetch will try to stop you."

"Can it stop the winch?"

"No."

"Can it use the canister to come aboard?"

"Only if you carry it across the rail or bring it in on a living man's line."

I turned from the radio and looked toward the stern. Something pressed against the inside of the wheelhouse glass. A handprint appeared in the fog. It was on the wrong side. The fingers were long and pale through the gray.

Water gathered at the heel of the palm and ran down the glass in five narrow trails. I took one step back. The handprint stayed where it was.

"Sydney."

"I know."

"You can see it?"

"I can hear the change in your voice."

"It's on the inside of the glass."

She didn't answer. The radio clicked. Then Sydney said, "Do not open the wheelhouse."

"I wasn't going to."

"Do not touch the windows."

"I know."

"Kill the exterior lights."

I reached for the switch. The handprint remained against the glass while I shut off the first bank. The stern went dark. The fog filled the window. I shut off the second bank, and the rest of the deck disappeared too.

The radio was quiet. I could hear the line moving outside. Not much. A slow scrape through the roller. The Fetch was still connected to it.

Maybe it was standing on the platform. Maybe it was holding the cable from the water. There wasn't enough light left to tell, and I wasn't going to turn the lights back on to find out.

"Can you control the winch from inside?"

Sydney asked. "Yes."

"Use the hydraulic winch."

"I know how it works."

"Do not bring the tether in."

"I won't."

"Recover the canister alone."

"Without touching it."

"Without touching it."

That was the first instruction she'd given me that I could use. I put my hand on the winch controls and checked the locked doors again. The wheelhouse was sealed. The fog covered the windows. The radio sat beside me with Sydney still on the line, and the tether kept scraping over the roller as if something outside was waiting for me to make the wrong choice.

I shut the wheelhouse against the fog and decided to lift the canister by hydraulic winch without touching it.

I pulled the winch cover back and started the hydraulic motor. It made a low grinding sound that came up through the deck. The Ferryman shifted under my boots. The fog covered the stern lights and most of the water, which meant I could see about six feet in any direction and none of the six feet were useful.

The grapple went over the rail. I watched the cable pay out through the roller. It dropped straight at first. Then the current caught it and moved it under the boat. I had to work the controls in small adjustments because the canister was somewhere below us and I didn't want to drag the hook across it.

The tether was still on the other side of the reel. I kept it separate from the recovery cable and made sure neither one crossed the hatch. That was the sort of thing that was easy to say and harder to do on a wet deck in the dark. There were cables everywhere. The empty harness was against the wheelhouse wall.

Loose tools were in a bin near the stern. The grapple line ran over the roller. The tether ran over the other roller. And the hatch sat between me and the rest of the boat like it had become the only door that mattered. Sydney was still on the radio.

"Do not open anything," she said.

"I know."

"Do not touch anything offered through the hatch."

"I know that too."

The winch gave a heavy pull. The cable tightened. I felt the hook catch something below.

"That's it," I said.

"Confirm the canister."

"I have it."

"Begin recovery."

"I am."

The canister came off the bottom slowly. At first the cable only moved a few inches. Then the weight settled into it and the winch motor changed pitch. The sound got higher and sharper. I kept one hand on the controls and the other on the wheelhouse hatch.

The hatch was closed. I knew that. I had checked the latch twice. But knowing a door was closed didn't mean you stopped watching it. Something moved in the fog.

I looked toward the stern. The tether was hanging over the roller in a long wet curve. Nothing was holding it that I could see. The cable lifted anyway. It came up a foot at a time.

Water ran down the black sheath and collected on the deck. Then Jasper said, "Chandler." I didn't answer.

"Chandler, open the door."

His voice came through the radio. It sounded close enough to be standing beside me, which was one of the things the Fetch could do. Use a voice. Put it wherever it wanted. Make you look in the wrong direction.

"I know you're there," it said.

The winch pulled again. The recovery cable came up through the roller. The canister was still below the surface, but it was moving. I could tell from the strain. The cable had the weight of something solid on it.

"Chandler," Jasper said.

"You need to let me in."

I kept my hand on the controls. "You're on the line," I said.

"That's not the same thing."

"No."

"You need to open the hatch."

"I'm not opening this door."

There was a pause. It was almost the same pause Jasper used when he was about to make a joke underwater. Almost. The real Jasper never waited that long.

"I can come through the line," he said.

Sydney broke in. "It cannot board unless you invite it or make contact."

"I know."

"Do not respond to any request."

"It already knows I can hear it."

"That doesn't change the rule."

The tether rose another foot. A shape moved along it below the fog. I couldn't see a body. I could see the cable dipping under a weight that wasn't the cable's own weight. The line flexed and then straightened.

The radio crackled. "Grey Lantern."

The words came from Jasper's voice. Clean and flat. I watched the tether.

"Black Current."

The line jerked against the roller. "Seven Seal."

Sydney said, "It is repeating the recovery codes." "I hear it."

"It may use other information to make you open the hatch."

The voice came back before I could answer. "Your left glove is leaking."

I looked down at my hand. The glove was wet inside. It had been wet since I hauled Jasper's harness aboard. The Fetch knew that because Jasper had known it. Or because it had watched me.

Neither answer helped. "You switched hands after the first pull," Jasper said.

"Your shoulder was giving you trouble."

I kept looking at the cable. "That was twenty minutes in," it said.

"You said the winch was fine."

The memory was mine. Jasper had been there for it. He'd been standing beside me on the deck while I worked the reel and complained about my shoulder. It wasn't an important memory. That was probably why it worked.

The ordinary things were harder to reject than a warning. "Chandler," it said.

"You checked my harness three times."

I didn't answer. "You checked the air hose."

The canister came closer. The winch motor strained and the deck vibrated under my boots.

"You told me to keep the line clear."

I reached for the radio. Sydney said, "Do not engage it." I let my hand drop. The voice changed. Not much.

It lost the friendly part. "Open the hatch."

"I'm not opening it."

"You left me down there."

"I didn't leave you."

"You pulled up the gear."

The tether made another sharp movement. Something struck the underside of the roller. The sound traveled through the metal and into my boots.

"You pulled up the gear and left me in the dark."

"I came back for you."

"No, you didn't."

The winch cable climbed another few feet. I could feel the canister below the surface now. The weight moved with the boat instead of against it. That meant it was clear of the bottom. It also meant I was going to have to bring it over the rail without touching the tether.

The fog shifted across the deck. For a second I saw the hatch clearly. Then the white closed over it again.

"Chandler," Jasper said.

I kept the hatch behind me. "Let me aboard."

"No."

"Let me aboard."

"No."

"You know me."

"I know what happened."

That stopped the voice for a second. Sydney said, "Keep the hatch closed."

"I am."

"Do not touch the thing."

"I won't."

Something bumped against the far side of the wheelhouse. The sound was soft. Not a knock. More like a wet glove sliding over metal. Then the hatch handle moved.

It turned once and stopped. I put my shoulder against the door. The winch controls were to my right. I could still reach them, but I had to lean away from the hatch to do it. The cable pulled hard below the boat.

The motor complained. The canister was coming up. The handle moved again.

"Open it," Jasper said.

"I'm not opening this door."

"You don't have to."

The latch gave a small metallic click. I shoved harder against the hatch. The whole door moved inward a fraction. I felt the pressure through my shoulder and kept my weight there. Sydney's voice came through the radio.

"Hold it closed."

"I am."

"Do not let it create contact."

The hatch pushed against me again. This time the force came lower, near my hip. Something was leaning into it from outside.

"Chandler," Jasper said.

"You asked me where we ate before the job."

I looked at the radio. "You asked me twice."

The voice went on without waiting. "You were going to tell me the place had bad coffee."

I hadn't told him that. I had said something about the coffee. Maybe. It was close enough to make the words dangerous.

"You said the table was sticky."

The hatch pushed harder. "You said we should've gone somewhere else."

I braced both feet against the deck. The cable below pulled again. The winch motor rose into a hard mechanical whine.

"Chandler," the voice said.

"You remember."

"I remember you going down."

The words came out rough. I didn't say anything else. The canister broke the surface below the stern. I heard water falling from the cable. The grapple swung under the boat and struck the hull with a dull bang.

The impact pulled the recovery cable sideways. It pulled me sideways too. My boots slid across the wet deck. I hit the hatch with my back and caught the edge of the controls with one elbow. The winch kept running.

The cable strained until it sang. I reached for the stop switch. The hatch moved against my shoulder.

"Don't," Sydney said.

I kept my hand on the controls. "Raise the canister."

"It's pulling me off the hatch."

"Raise the canister."

The voice outside said, "Chandler." The hatch pressed inward. I pushed back with both feet. The deck was slick enough that my boots kept moving. The fog hid the rail and the stern and the cable below it.

I could hear the winch. I could hear water hitting the hull. I could hear Jasper asking to come aboard in the same calm voice he used when he was working. The cable pulled again. I slipped across the deck, but I kept my body against the closed hatch while one gloved hand from the Fetch pressed against its outer side.

I kept my shoulder against the hatch and raised the canister another foot. The winch motor was loud enough to shake the controls. The cable came over the roller in wet black lengths. Somewhere below the stern the canister swung against the hull, but I couldn't see it through the fog. I could hear the water falling off it.

I could hear the hatch moving behind me. "Chandler," Jasper said.

I didn't answer. "Raise it," Sydney said.

"I'm raising it."

"Keep the hatch closed."

"I know."

The canister hit the rail with a heavy metal bang. The cable pulled sideways and the winch complained. I leaned away from the hatch long enough to bring the load in, then put my weight back against the door before it could open again. The canister slid across the rail and landed on the deck.

For a second nothing happened. The winch kept running. The cable went slack. Water drained from the canister and ran between the deck boards. It was a long steel cylinder with a dark housing around the middle and two handles on top.

It looked like equipment. That was the problem with most bad things. They looked like equipment until they started doing something. I stopped the winch. The hatch handle turned under my hand.

"Don't touch the canister," Sydney said.

"I wasn't going to."

The seal broke. It didn't open like a lid. A narrow band around the cylinder gave way with a sharp metallic crack. The housing split and sprang outward. Something inside shifted against the steel.

Then the top section lifted by itself and dropped onto the deck. I watched the opening. The inside was wet and black. Not just wet from seawater. It had been opened before.

The locking ring was bent outward and the edge of the seal was scraped pale. There were fresh marks along the metal where something had forced its way through from inside. The canister hadn't been sealed when I brought it up.

"That wasn't sealed," I said.

Sydney didn't answer. The hatch pushed against my back. I put both hands on it and kept it shut.

"Sydney."

"I heard it."

"The canister was already open."

"Yes."

"You knew."

"I suspected the seal had been compromised."

"That's not what I said."

The open canister made a soft dripping sound. Water ran out of it and spread across the deck toward my boots. I kept my feet clear of the puddle. The fog had thinned around the rail, but the wheelhouse windows were still gray. I could see the edge of the cylinder and the dark space inside it.

"What was supposed to be in there?"

I asked. "The anchor."

"Anchor for what?"

"The Fetch."

The hatch pushed again. I held it with my shoulder.

"So I didn't bring up the canister."

"You brought up the anchor."

"You sent me down to bring it aboard."

"I sent you down to recover the canister."

"You knew what it carried."

"I knew the remains were contained inside it."

"They weren't contained."

"No."

That was the first time Sydney had said it without qualifying anything. The word sat between us while water continued to drain from the open cylinder. Then something moved in the wheelhouse doorway. I saw the brass helmet first. It came through the fog in slow pieces.

The shoulders followed. The suit stepped over the threshold and stopped inside the doorway. It was wearing Jasper's gear. The brass glass was clouded from the inside. I couldn't see a face behind it.

There was only a pale shape pressed close to the glass and a darker smear where the eyes should have been. Water ran from the helmet and down the thick layers. The cut air hose hung against the harness. I was still holding the hatch shut. The wheelhouse door was between me and the figure, but it wasn't closed.

It stood open behind the thing. "Sydney," I said.

"Fresh water will end it."

The figure turned toward me. "What?"

"The drowned crew were bound to salt water. They cannot hold their form in fresh water."

The helmet made a slow scraping sound as it moved. "How do you know that?"

"They died of thirst before they drowned."

I looked at the open canister. The black water inside it trembled even though the boat had stopped rolling.

"Fresh water will end the Fetch," she said.

The figure took one step out of the doorway. It didn't move like a person walking across a deck. The legs locked one at a time. The boots dragged through the water and left dark marks behind them. Jasper's voice came through the radio.

"Let me aboard."

"It's already aboard," I said.

"Not completely."

The figure lifted one hand. The glove opened and closed.

"Chandler," it said.

"Open the hatch."

I kept my shoulder against the door. The hatch was still shut, but the figure no longer needed an invitation. Sydney had said that. Once the anchor came aboard, the rule changed. The thing had what it needed.

It had the open canister and whatever had been inside it. It had Jasper's voice. It had the suit. It had a way onto my boat that didn't depend on me helping.

"Where's the fresh water?"

I asked. "Under the aft deck," Sydney said.

"The tank is on the starboard side."

"I know where the tank is."

"Open the valve."

The figure took another step. I moved off the hatch. The door pushed inward behind me as soon as my shoulder left it. I grabbed the valve wheel beside the bulkhead and turned it hard. Nothing happened at first.

It had been shut for too long or the pressure had gone down. I turned it again. Then water came through the deck line. It hit the open canister first. The stream struck the black opening and splashed over the steel housing.

The water changed the sound coming from inside it. The slow dripping stopped. Something inside the cylinder made a wet clicking noise. The figure jerked. I swung the hose toward it.

Fresh water sprayed across the brass helmet. It ran down the glass and over the shoulders. The figure stepped back, but there wasn't much room behind it. The wheelhouse doorway caught one side of the suit. The other side struck the rail.

Jasper screamed. The sound came through the helmet and the radio at the same time. It was his voice, but it had no words in it. It rose and broke and came back lower. I kept the hose on the figure.

"More," Sydney said.

"The tank's open."

"Use all of it."

The water spread over the deck. It mixed with the black fluid from the canister and ran toward the scuppers. The figure's arms lifted. The gloves caught at the hose but couldn't close around it. The suit was changing under the brass and fabric.

It sagged around the chest. The shoulders narrowed. The hoses twisted against the deck.

"Chandler," it said.

The voice was Jasper again. "Stop."

I didn't. "You're hurting me."

I kept the stream on the helmet. "Chandler, I know where we ate."

The words came out between the screams. The voice was trying to sound normal. That was the part that made me keep going. Jasper would've made a joke about the coffee. He would've complained about the table.

He wouldn't have stood in a doorway asking me to stop while water ran out of his suit.

"Fresh water," Sydney said.

"Keep it on the helmet."

The tank coughed. The stream got weaker. The figure bent forward. The brass helmet struck the deck with a hard ring. Water ran through the glass.

For a moment the pale shape inside pressed against it. Then it pulled back and vanished into the dark. The tank line gave one last burst and went dry. I shut the valve. The deck was covered in water and dark sludge.

The open canister sat on its side with the broken seal hanging from it. The figure was still moving beside the wheelhouse doorway. One arm dragged across the boards. The brass helmet lifted a few inches. I looked toward the emergency flare kit.

It was bolted beside the stern locker. I pulled the lid open and took out the water-based chemical extinguisher. The label was half peeled away, but I knew what it was for. The Ferryman had one because fuel fires were bad and salt water made electrical fires worse. It wasn't much water.

Maybe it was enough. The figure got one knee under itself.

"Don't let it rise," Sydney said.

"I'm not planning to."

I pulled the pin and squeezed the handle. A white stream came out. It struck the brass helmet and spread over the deck. The chemical smelled sharp and clean. It mixed with the brackish sludge and turned it gray.

The figure's hand reached toward me and stopped halfway. "Chandler," Jasper said.

I kept spraying. The brass suit started to fold. The legs went first. The knees bent the wrong way and slid out under the weight of the suit. The harness dropped loose around the chest.

The hoses slapped against the deck. "Let me back aboard," it said.

"You are aboard."

The helmet turned toward me. "Let me back aboard."

The voice had gone thin. It came from inside the helmet and from the radio speaker. Sydney was still saying something, but the scream drowned her out. I could see the helmet filling with water now. It wasn't coming through the glass.

It was rising inside the brass shell as if the helmet had become a container. The face behind the glass pressed forward one last time. It looked like Jasper. Not all of him. Just enough.

The mouth moved against the inside of the glass. The voice said my name. Then the suit collapsed across the deck into brackish sludge while Jasper Simpson's voice screams from the flooded helmet.

It took me about six hours to get the Ferryman moving toward shore. The fog had been thick at first, and I kept the speed down because there wasn't much point in reaching the coast quickly if I hit something on the way there. By early morning it had started to thin. The water showed up in pieces.

Then the horizon did. I spent most of those hours cleaning the deck. The sludge went into a steel drum from the hold. I used a shovel for the larger pieces and a squeegee for the rest. It wasn't much like cleaning up a person.

It was more like cleaning up something that had been pretending to be one. The drum was sealed and strapped below. The canister stayed on deck. Its seal had been sheared open underwater, and the top section was still sitting crooked against the side where it had split. I lashed the whole thing down with two cargo straps because one seemed like the kind of decision I'd regret later.

There are times when you can tell an object has become somebody else's problem. The canister had reached that point. I still had to bring it to shore, but I didn't have to like having it on my deck. The empty harness hung beside the wheelhouse door. I hadn't put it there for any reason that made sense.

It was just where I'd carried it after Jasper came back without the rest of himself, and I hadn't found a better place for it. The buckles were still closed. The cut air hose still hung from the side. I made coffee at the galley sink and took the cup to the helm. It tasted like burnt metal.

That wasn't because the coffee was bad. The coffee was bad for other reasons. The pot had been sitting on the burner too long, and I didn't have enough left in the filter to make a full batch, so I added water and hoped it would become coffee again. It didn't. I drank it anyway.

I kept one hand on the wheel and held the cup with the other. The Ferryman rolled under me in the low swell. Every time the boat came down the other side, the coffee climbed toward the rim. I looked at the harness whenever the boat rolled. I didn't look at it because I expected Jasper to come back.

There wasn't anything left in the water for me to recover. The Fetch's remains were in the drum. The harness was beside the door. That was everything that had returned. Sydney called just after the fog started lifting.

The radio clicked once. Then she said, "Chandler."

"I'm here."

"Confirm your course."

I looked at the compass. "West by southwest. Then south when I clear the bank."

"Estimated arrival?"

"Late morning."

"That is acceptable."

I took another drink of coffee. It had gotten cold already.

"You called to ask about my course?"

"No. I called to confirm your payment."

That sounded more like Sydney. She could make money sound like equipment. Something with a serial number and a service interval.

"How much?"

"Double the agreed rate."

"You said the client would authorize it."

"The client authorized it."

"When?"

"While you were cleaning the deck."

I looked toward the wheelhouse door. The harness swung a little in the draft from the vent. It moved forward and back without making much noise.

"You had time to arrange payment while I was doing that?"

"I had time to arrange payment before you finished."

"That's not better."

"It wasn't intended to be."

I held the radio closer. "Where's the money going?"

"Your usual account."

"You have the account information?"

"Yes."

"I didn't give it to you for this job."

"You gave it to me for the last one."

"The last one had two divers."

Sydney didn't answer. There was a long pause. The radio hissed against the wheelhouse. She had a way of letting silence do the part of the conversation she didn't want to say herself. Then she said, "The drum will be collected at the coast."

"By who?"

"The containment program."

"What containment program?"

"The same program that produced the Fetch."

I watched the horizon through the front glass. The fog was breaking apart ahead of us. The water beyond it was dark blue and flat enough to look harmless.

"You're sending it back?"

"Yes."

"The drum is sealed."

"It will remain sealed."

"You don't know that."

"We have procedures."

"You had procedures before Jasper went down."

Another pause. This one didn't last as long.

"The remains will be catalogued," she said.

"Then they'll be returned to the same containment program."

"Catalogued how?"

"By the recovery team."

"Which recovery team?"

"I'll provide the details when you reach shore."

"I don't want the details when I reach shore."

"You'll receive them anyway."

That was probably true. Sydney had a way of giving you information whether you'd agreed to take it or not. I looked at the drum through the open hatch to the hold. It was strapped against the bulkhead, the lid sealed with a band of gray compound. Water had dried in white marks around the bottom.

The drum looked ordinary. It could've held fuel, parts, or old bolts. It didn't look like it had once contained the remains of a drowned crew.

"Is Jasper in there?"

I asked. Sydney didn't answer right away. I kept my hand on the wheel.

"Is Jasper in the drum?"

"The drum contains the remains of the Fetch."

"That wasn't my question."

"No. Jasper cannot be recovered."

The Ferryman dropped into a trough. Coffee sloshed over my fingers and ran across the console. I set the cup down.

"Only the remains came back," she said.

"And the empty harness."

"I know what came back."

"I wanted you to understand the distinction."

"I understand it."

The radio went quiet again. I could hear the engine and the wet slap of water against the hull. The harness moved beside the door. It turned just far enough for the brass buckle to catch the light, then turned back. Sydney said, "The payment will clear before you reach the coast."

"Fine."

"Chandler."

"What?"

"Do not open the drum."

"I wasn't planning to."

"Do not allow anyone else to open it."

I looked down at the coffee spreading across the console. "You want me to guard it?"

"Until the containment team takes custody."

"That's different from telling me it would be collected."

"It is the same instruction."

"No, it isn't."

She didn't argue. Sydney rarely argued when she could just wait for the other person to stop talking. I wiped the coffee up with a rag and threw the rag into the sink. Then I checked the course again. The coast was still hidden under the last of the fog, but the light had changed.

It was coming up behind me now. The water ahead had gone gray instead of black. The canister stayed lashed to the deck. The sealed drum stayed below. The harness stayed beside the wheelhouse door.

I kept the radio on but Sydney didn't call again. Maybe she was done with me. Maybe she was waiting until I got close enough for the next instruction to matter. Either way, the Ferryman kept moving. I drank the rest of the coffee because I'd made it, and because throwing it out would've meant admitting it was undrinkable.

Then I put the cup beside the radio and watched the coast come through the thinning fog. Chandler keeps one hand on the Ferryman's helm as the sheared canister and sealed drum ride toward the Oregon coast.

It took another three hours to reach the coast. The fog stayed with me most of the way, although it got thinner near shore. By then I could see the water ahead and the dark line of the dock beyond it. The canister was still lashed down on deck. The sealed drum was still below.

Nothing had moved unless the boat moved it. I kept the speed low as I came in. The Ferryman had a habit of turning wide when the current caught her, and I didn't want the canister sliding across the deck after everything else it had already done. I checked the cargo straps once. Then I checked them again because one check is how you find out later that you should've done two.

The radio was mostly static. It had been doing that since the fog lifted. A low hiss under the engine noise. Every so often there was a pop or a short burst that sounded like somebody trying to come through. I didn't touch the transmitter.

I didn't need to talk to anybody. Sydney knew where I was, and the people waiting at the dock knew the boat was coming in. So I kept moving. The shoreline got larger. A row of wet pilings came out of the fog.

The dock lights were still on even though the morning had gotten bright enough to see without them. Their reflections shook apart on the water whenever the Ferryman rolled. Then Jasper's voice came through the radio.

"It's cold outside."

It was quiet under the static. Not the clear voice he'd used when he asked to come aboard. Not the voice that had screamed through the flooded helmet. This sounded farther away. Like somebody talking from the other side of a wall.

I looked at the radio. The Ferryman kept moving toward the berth. There wasn't anything to answer. He wasn't asking me to open a door. He wasn't giving me a status report.

He just said it was cold outside, which was the sort of thing Jasper might've said before a dive if he hadn't already made a joke about the hazard pay. The voice didn't come again. I brought the bow around and eased the boat between the pilings. The current pushed us sideways, so I corrected and then corrected again.

The dock came close enough that I could see the dark water stains on the boards. A line had been left coiled near the cleat. I reached over and caught it with the boat hook. The rope landed across the rail. I pulled it in and made it fast.

The Ferryman bumped the dock once. Not hard. Just enough to make the canister shift against its straps and the empty harness move beside the wheelhouse door. I watched the harness swing. It came forward and back a few inches.

The brass buckle caught the dock light. Then the boat settled and the harness stopped. I tied the stern line next. The knot was the same one I used every time, which meant I didn't have to think about it. That was useful.

There were already enough things on the boat that required thinking. The freshwater tank was under the aft deck. I checked the gauge and opened the fill line. The tank took a while. It made a hollow rushing sound below me, and water dripped from the fitting onto the boards.

I stood there until the gauge reached full. Sydney had said fresh water would end the Fetch. I didn't know if that was true because the water had killed it or because there wasn't enough of it left to fight back. Maybe those were the same thing. Either way, I wasn't going to let the tank run low again.

I shut the valve and checked it twice. The canister stayed on deck. The drum stayed in the hold. The sludge inside it was sealed under a band of gray compound, and I had no reason to open it. Sydney had told me the containment program would collect it.

She'd also told me it would be catalogued. That was the word she used. Catalogued. It meant somebody would write down what was in the drum, where it had come from, and what had happened to the people who became the Fetch. Then the drum would go back into the same containment program that had made the Fetch in the first place.

I understood what she was saying. The program didn't end because one thing had escaped it. It just received the thing back and put it somewhere else. That was how these jobs worked. Something dangerous was stored somewhere dangerous, and then somebody hired a diver to move it because the first place had become inconvenient.

I went back to the wheelhouse and checked the radio. Nothing but static. I left it on. The Navy's private clients still had recovery work. Sydney still had my number.

There would be another sealed container or another piece of equipment sitting somewhere it shouldn't. There would be a rate attached to it. Maybe the rate would be high enough to make the job sound reasonable. I knew what happened when somebody left out the important part. The canister was secure.

The drum was sealed. The freshwater tank was full. Those were the things I could check, so those were the things I checked. The empty harness stayed beside the wheelhouse door. I didn't take it apart.

I didn't fold it up. I didn't move it into the hold with the rest of the gear. It had come back that way, and I left it that way. Outside, the dock lines pulled tight as the tide shifted. The Ferryman gave one small creak and settled against the fenders.

The water moved under the hull without making much sound. I stood at the helm and listened to the radio hiss. Jasper didn't speak again. The Ferryman reached the dock with its freshwater tank full and Jasper's empty harness hanging beside the wheelhouse door.