Never Answer If You Hear Your Own Name From Below The Water.

I was trying to get the boiler to stop making that knocking sound. It had been doing it all afternoon, one hard bang every few minutes, like somebody was trapped inside and had found a pipe to hit. The office was small enough that the boiler took up one wall. The department called it an adjunct office, which made it sound like there was a larger office somewhere else.

There wasn't. There was a desk, two filing cabinets, a window facing a brick wall, and the boiler. Outside, September had started turning the light gray. It wasn't raining yet, but the glass had that wet look it gets before the rain makes up its mind. My phone rang while I was looking for the breaker.

It was Jasmine. I answered and put her on speaker because I still needed both hands for the breaker panel. That was probably a mistake. Jasmine didn't like being on speaker. She said it made the conversation sound like a business meeting.

"It is a business meeting," she said.

"I know."

"The payment is due Friday."

"I know that too."

"The amount is two thousand four hundred dollars."

"I know the amount."

She went quiet for a second. Jasmine was good at that. She could leave a silence in place and let you decide what it meant. Usually it meant I should stop explaining. I looked at the door while she waited.

The paper taped to it said Robert Finn. The department had printed it that way at the start of the quarter. I sent an email about it and got a reply saying they would correct it when the office assignments were finalized. That was three months ago.

"I don't have it in the account," I said.

"I figured."

There was a lot of boiler noise behind me. The thing knocked again. Jasmine heard it.

"Are you at work?"

"I'm in the office."

"The one with the boiler?"

"Yes."

"So you're getting paid."

"Not today."

"Robert."

She didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to.

"If you miss it again, I'll file through the court," she said.

"I'm not making another arrangement."

"I understand."

"I've heard that before."

I turned the breaker off and the boiler kept knocking. That seemed about right. I put my hand on the side of the panel, though I didn't know what I expected to feel. Heat, maybe. Some evidence that the machine was still connected to the building.

Then another call came through. The screen showed Greyson Warner. I'd spoken with him before about contract work, although not enough to call him a friend and not little enough to forget his voice. Greyson had a polished way of explaining bad situations. He called dangerous details logistical details.

He called expensive problems straightforward. Jasmine was still on the line.

"Who is that?" she asked.

"Greyson."

"You should answer it."

"I can call him back."

"Can you get paid?"

"I don't know."

"Then answer it."

I picked up the second call and kept Jasmine on the first. For a few seconds I had both phones against my head, which was how my professional life had started to look. One person wanted money. The other might have some.

"Robert," Greyson said.

"I have a survey opportunity."

"Where?"

"Southeast Alaska. Short marine assessment. Straightforward work if the documentation is clean."

Jasmine made a small sound in my other ear. Greyson continued.

"The vessel is the Cordelia Vane. Cannery tender. Disappeared in October of nineteen eleven with nineteen crewmen aboard."

"Disappeared how?"

"It left and didn't arrive. Three days later it was found anchored in a sheltered cove. No collision damage. No storm damage. The vessel was undamaged."

"Was anybody aboard?"

"No."

He said it like that settled the matter. Maybe for him it did.

"The galley meals were still in place," he said.

"The lifeboats were secured. No bodies. No missing boats. The state classified it as a mass disappearance of undetermined cause."

Jasmine was breathing into the other phone. I could hear the office boiler clicking as it cooled down.

"The salvagers want to raise it?"

I asked. "They need the state's approval first. The state needs a marine geologist's assessment before they'll authorize the operation."

"And nobody wants to sign it."

"Every credentialed geologist we've contacted has declined."

"Why?"

"Details."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the answer I have."

Greyson had a way of making a refusal sound like paperwork. He also knew I was listening because of the money.

"What kind of assessment?"

I asked. "Sediment movement and hull integrity. You determine whether the wreck can be raised without losing the site or damaging the structure. You submit the report. No university affiliation. Flat fee. Cash."

Jasmine said my name in the other phone. "Robert."

"I heard you."

"Do you need to go?"

"I don't know yet."

Greyson said, "The fee would be paid on completion." "How much?"

He told me. I looked at the door again. Robert Finn. The name on the office I shared with a boiler. I had expected to spend the rest of the afternoon answering student emails and finding a way to move money from one account to another without making either account worse.

The fee would cover Jasmine's payment. It would cover the rent. It would leave enough for several months of living expenses if nothing else went wrong, which was the kind of assumption I had made before.

"Send me the contract," I said.

"I already have."

I checked my university email. The message was there. The subject line was Cordelia Vane Survey Agreement. The attachment was a PDF with Greyson's company name at the top and more pages than the job deserved.

"You're looking at it?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Good. The travel is simple. Fly to Sitka. A boat will take you to Takatz Bay on Baranof Island."

"How long is the boat trip?"

"Several hours."

"Reliable radio?"

"Not in the inlet. Cellular coverage is unreliable too."

"That doesn't sound simple."

"It is a narrow sheltered inlet. The geography causes problems with the signal."

"Possible distortion?"

"Something like that."

I scrolled through the contract. The first pages described the work. The next pages described payment. The page after that had the indemnity clause. I stopped there.

"Greyson."

"Yes."

"This says I'm responsible for injury, loss, equipment damage, environmental damage, weather delay, and acts of unknown origin."

"Standard language."

"Acts of unknown origin isn't standard language."

"It means the usual things."

"Which usual things?"

He didn't answer right away. Jasmine said, "Robert, if you're going to take it, take it. If you're not, tell me now." Greyson said, "The local pilots won't tie up where they can see the Cordelia Vane." I read that sentence twice, although it wasn't in the contract. It was just something Greyson was telling me over the phone.

"Why?"

"They have their reasons."

"Will somebody stay with me?"

"If the pilot agrees."

"And if he doesn't?"

"Then you complete the survey alone."

That was the part where a reasonable person would have asked for more information. I had the contract open. I had the indemnity clause on the screen. I had Jasmine waiting for an answer about money I didn't have. So I signed it.

I didn't read the rest of the indemnity clause. I put my name on the signature line and sent the file back to Greyson. It wasn't courage. It was arithmetic, and the arithmetic was better than the alternative. A minute later Greyson called again.

"Received," he said.

"I'll send the flight information."

"All right."

"And Robert?"

"Yes?"

"Stay focused on the survey. Sediment and hull integrity. That's all they need."

"That's what I signed for."

"Good. It's a straightforward assignment."

He ended the call. Jasmine was still there.

"When will you have the money?" she asked.

"After the survey."

"That wasn't my question."

"I know. I'll send it after the survey."

"Friday is the deadline."

"I'll send it after the survey."

She was quiet again. I opened a new email and typed her address. The message was short because anything longer would've looked like another explanation. I wrote that the payment would be sent after the survey. I put in the date Greyson had given me for completion.

I checked it once. Then I checked it again, even though the date didn't become more reliable from being looked at. Jasmine replied while I was still watching the screen. I have heard this promise before. Then another message came through.

But you need the contract to keep the apartment and remain current with the court order. Send the payment on the date you gave me. I read that one once. The boiler knocked behind me. The sound traveled through the wall and into the desk.

I moved the contract file beside it so I wouldn't forget where I'd put it. Then I sent Jasmine the promised payment date and closed the contract file beside the boiler.

The next two days were mostly airports, baggage claims, and people asking if I had anything sharp in the case. I had several things sharp in the case. Dive tools, sample cutters, a folding knife, and enough equipment to make the security people look at me twice. But I got through. Nobody asked about the Cordelia Vane.

That part was probably for the best. I reached Sitka in the morning with the survey gear packed into hard cases. There were dive tanks, survey cameras, silt-core tubes, and a field notebook in a waterproof bag. The cases had spent most of the trip going somewhere else. By the time I got them back, one of the camera cases had a new crack along the corner.

The marina was small. Or maybe it only looked small because there wasn't much happening in it. Boats sat tied along the docks with their lines pulled tight. A few men moved my gear from the cart to the end of the pier. They did it without asking what was inside.

"Careful with that one," I said.

The man carrying the camera case looked at me. Then he looked at the crack. He set it down. That was the conversation. I told them I was waiting for a boat to Takatz Bay.

Nobody said anything about the bay. Nobody said anything about the wreck either. I tried the name once, just to see if somebody would react.

"Cordelia Vane," I said.

The nearest man kept working on a fuel line. Another man walked past me carrying a coil of hose. He didn't look over. It was like I'd said the name of somebody who wasn't there, which was technically true, although that didn't explain why everyone acted like I was the one being rude. Greyson's arrangement had been simple.

A boat would meet me at the marina. The captain knew where I was going. The captain would get me there. That was the whole arrangement, as far as I could tell. I stood beside the gear and waited.

The boat came in without much noise. It was a workboat with a covered wheelhouse and paint worn off around the stern. The man at the wheel shut down the engine and stepped onto the dock. He was old enough that I noticed it, although not old enough that I thought it mattered. He had long gray-black hair tied back at his neck and a pale scar through one eyebrow.

"You Robert?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Lincoln."

He held out his hand. I shook it.

"I'm taking you to Takatz Bay."

"Greyson said your name was Lincoln."

"That's right."

He looked over the gear. Not at the labels. At the way it had been packed.

"You have dive equipment."

"Some."

"And cameras."

"For the survey."

He nodded. He crouched beside the case with the silt-core tubes and checked the latches with one hand. He didn't open it.

"You're the geologist?"

"Marine geologist."

He looked at me again. "You were told what happened to the nineteen men?"

"I was given the official report."

"What did it say?"

"That the vessel disappeared. It was found anchored in a sheltered cove three days later. The vessel was undamaged. The crew was gone."

He kept looking at me. "The report says nothing about a cause," I said.

Lincoln stood up. "That is what you were told?"

"That's what I was given."

He nodded once. Then he picked up the end of a case and carried it aboard. I helped with the rest. The marina men watched from a distance. One of them moved when I came near, not away exactly, but enough that I had to turn sideways to get past him.

I figured there had been some disagreement about the salvage operation. Maybe Greyson hadn't paid somebody. Maybe the local pilots didn't like outside contractors. That kind of thing happened around work. The boat pulled away before I had finished deciding which explanation made the most sense.

The crossing took four hours. Lincoln kept his hands on the wheel and didn't talk much. I sat behind him with the wreck files open on my knees. Greyson had sent copies of the official report, the state correspondence, and a set of photographs that showed the Cordelia Vane at anchor from a distance. The photographs weren't very useful.

There was fog in most of them. In the clearest one, the masts rose above the water with no sails and no movement around them. The boat looked less abandoned than paused. I read the report twice. Then I went back through the photographs.

The radio stayed quiet the whole time. Not silent exactly. There was static now and then. A click. Once a burst of something that might have been a voice, although it broke apart before I could make out a word.

Lincoln didn't touch the radio. My ears popped several times as we moved through the channels. I swallowed and tried to clear them. It worked for a minute. Then they popped again.

I hadn't expected that on a boat. I wrote it down in the margin of the report, mostly because I had the pen in my hand. The water stayed calm. That was the strange part. The boat moved over a flat gray surface with almost no roll.

There were trees on the islands and low clouds over the ridges. Every so often Lincoln changed course without explanation.

"How much farther?"

I asked. "Not far."

That was about twenty minutes before he said anything else. We were coming into the cove when he spoke. The water ahead looked the same as it had behind us. Gray. Cold.

No real surface movement. "The water here is unpredictable," he said.

I looked up from the files. "Because of the inlet?"

"Because of the bay."

I waited for more. He kept watching ahead.

"Possible distortion?"

I asked. He turned his head slightly.

"Signal problems," I said.

"Greyson mentioned them."

"The bay gives things back on its own schedule."

I looked at him. He wasn't smiling. I wasn't sure if he expected me to respond, so I didn't. Then he said, "Never answer if you hear your own name called from below the surface." He said it flat.

No pause for effect. No explanation afterward. I waited another few seconds.

"All right," I said.

Lincoln faced forward again. I opened the field notebook and wrote the sentence under a heading that said local color. I had started that page on the flight. It included notes about the marina, the damaged camera case, and the fact that nobody wanted to discuss the wreck. The warning fit there too.

It was probably a local superstition. People around dangerous water developed rules. Don't go out in bad weather. Don't stand near a running line. Don't dive alone.

Sometimes the rules got attached to a story because people remembered stories better than instructions. That was my working explanation. The masts appeared a few minutes later. They rose beyond a rocky spit at the end of the cove. There were two of them, dark against the low cloud.

I saw the upper sections first. Then the lines between them. The Cordelia Vane was farther in than I expected. Lincoln didn't look toward it.

"Can you take me closer?"

I asked. "No."

"I need a visual before we anchor."

"You can see enough from here."

"I can't see the hull."

"No."

He turned the boat behind the rocky spit. The masts disappeared. The water opened slightly on the other side and then closed around us again. Lincoln cut the engine and let the boat drift while he worked the anchor line.

"Why are we anchoring here?"

"So you can't see the wreck from the deck."

"I'd like to get closer."

"No."

"The survey starts at first light."

"I know."

"Then I need to know where I'm going."

"You'll know."

He secured the line and checked it twice. The boat swung slowly until the rocky spit blocked the cove completely.

"I'll wait outside the cove until first light," he said.

"You mean on the boat?"

"Outside the cove."

"Lincoln."

He looked at me then. His face didn't change.

"I'll be here," he said.

"Don't answer the water."

Then he left me at the anchored workboat with the Cordelia Vane hidden beyond the rocky spit.

I waited until I couldn't hear the workboat anymore. Then I started unloading the gear. The dinghy was tied along the side of the boat. It was small enough that I had to think about where I put everything. Tanks in the middle.

Camera case under the forward seat. Dive light beside my knee. The silt-core tubes went along one side because there wasn't room anywhere else. The water didn't move much. That made the loading easier, although it also made the whole thing feel staged.

No wind. No gulls. No sound from the trees around the cove. Even the boat lines were quiet. I untied the dinghy and rowed toward the wreck.

The Cordelia Vane was invisible above the surface. I knew where it was because I'd seen the masts before Lincoln turned the boat behind the spit. But from the dinghy there was only clear water and the dark shape of the bottom below it. Then I looked down. The masts were standing upright about forty feet below me.

They went straight into the green water and seemed to stop at the deck. I could see parts of the rigging between them. The lines were thin from that distance, but they were there. Nothing moved around them. I stopped rowing and let the dinghy drift.

The water was clear enough that I could see the wreck better from above than I'd expected to see it with a camera. That was probably because the camera made everything smaller. Or because I was looking through a layer of water and my brain was filling in the parts it couldn't actually resolve. Either way, the masts were there.

I put on the dive gear and checked the connections twice. That was normal procedure. I checked them a third time because the cove was too quiet and because I had a boat hidden behind a rock instead of somebody watching from the surface. Then I went in. The cold got through the suit immediately.

Not all the way through, but enough to make my hands tighten around the descent line. I followed it down and watched the wreck grow larger under me. The Cordelia Vane rested upright on the bottom. The hull was intact. There was no obvious list and no break in the upper structure.

The rope around the forward fittings was still in place. Some of it looked dark and stiff, but it hadn't separated. The metal fittings had rusted, obviously, but not to the point where they had become shapes without purpose. The glass was the part that surprised me. There were bottles in the galley and pieces set into the deck fixtures.

Most of it was cloudy with age, but much of it was still whole. A vessel left underwater for one hundred fourteen years shouldn't have looked preserved. It should have looked reduced. Wood gone. Rope gone.

Metal spread out in flakes. Glass broken or buried. Instead it looked like it had been waiting for somebody to come back. That wasn't a useful observation, so I left it out of the notes. I moved along the hull with the camera and stopped at each section where the shape changed.

There was no collision damage. No long scrape. No crushed plating. No opening below the waterline. I checked the places where an explosion might have pushed the structure apart.

There was nothing there either. The ship had not been torn open. It had not broken in half. It had not sunk because the hull failed. I took the first silt core near the forward section and marked the tube before moving aft.

The work was slow because I had to keep the sampler straight while the bottom shifted under my knees. The silt was fine and packed tightly. It came up in a dark column inside the tube. I took another near the middle of the hull. Then another closer to the stern.

After that I photographed the anchor chain. It ran down through the fittings and disappeared into the bottom at the angle I expected. The deck rail was still attached. There were sections where the wood had worn smooth, but nothing had pulled loose. I photographed the open companionway last.

It led down into the vessel. The opening was black even with the dive light pointed into it. I moved closer and held the light at different angles. The beam picked up steps, part of a wall, and something pale that might have been a section of pipe. I didn't go inside.

That wasn't because of the warning. I had a survey plan and a limited air supply. The interior wasn't part of the first pass. Those were the reasons I wrote down. I was at the starboard rail when the sound came through the regulator.

Robert. It was low. The word seemed to travel through the water instead of coming from any one place. I stopped moving and looked toward the deck. Nothing was there.

The regulator clicked against my teeth. I could hear my own breathing. Then the sound came again, quieter this time. Robert. I turned the dive light across the rail and down along the hull.

The beam showed rope, fittings, and drifting particles. No diver. No speaker. No loose equipment that could have made a voice. I checked the regulator by hand.

The connections were tight. The hoses were where they were supposed to be. I drew another breath and listened for a change in the airflow. It felt normal. That didn't mean much.

Equipment failures didn't always announce themselves. Neither did pressure problems. Cold water could distort sound, and nitrogen narcosis could make a person assign meaning to something that didn't have any. I wrote those possibilities down before I surfaced. The ascent took longer than I wanted.

I kept looking down at the wreck as it faded below me. The masts stayed upright until the water turned dark enough to hide them. Then they were gone. I reached the dinghy and pulled myself over the side. The boat rocked once and settled.

I sat there with the mask around my neck and listened to the regulator ticking as I disconnected it. There was no voice now. I checked the regulator again. Then I checked the dive computer. Depth and pressure were within the expected range.

The water was cold. That was all the equipment could tell me. I stripped off the gloves and reached for the radio. The radio was mounted in a case beside the camera. I switched it on and waited for the static to clear.

"Boat at Takatz Bay. Come in."

Nothing answered. I tried again. I gave the position and asked for a response. The radio hissed. Somewhere inside the noise there was a short pop, but no voice followed it.

I waited a minute and called again. The workboat was still hidden behind the spit. I couldn't see it from where I sat. I also couldn't hear the engine, which meant either the distance was greater than I thought or the cove was better at hiding sound than it was supposed to be. I checked the radio volume.

It was high enough. I checked the channel. It was the one we'd used before. There wasn't much else to check without taking the unit apart. So I put it down and looked at my notes.

The report had no cause. My first dive had no cause either. The hull was intact. The chain was secure. The rail was attached.

The companionway was open. Nineteen men had disappeared from a vessel that showed no damage capable of explaining it. And I'd heard a voice through a regulator. I wrote possible distortion beside it. Then pressure.

Then cold-water distortion. I didn't write that it had used my name. That was a fact, but it wasn't a useful one. I could repeat the observation in the morning. Same route.

Same equipment. Same position at the starboard rail. If the sound happened again, I'd check the regulator before surfacing. If it didn't, I could put it down to some combination of pressure and cold and stop carrying it around in my notes. That was the reasonable approach.

I secured the camera and the core tubes. Then I picked up the radio again and held it while I fixed the second dive for morning.

I held the radio until my hand started to cramp. Then I put it down and tried to sleep. That didn't work very well. The dinghy moved against the side of the wreck whenever the water shifted, which was about once every few minutes. The sound was small.

Rubber against metal. A soft knock and then nothing. I kept expecting the radio to come back. It didn't. I also kept expecting the workboat to appear around the rocky spit.

It didn't do that either. By morning I'd decided both problems were equipment problems. The radio had already been unreliable. The battery could've drained during the night. The workboat could've moved outside the cove to find a signal.

Lincoln had said he'd be there, but he hadn't said where there was. That was the kind of detail people left out when they assumed the other person understood the area. I ate one of the bars from my gear bag and washed it down with warm water. Then I tested the radio again. Nothing.

I switched channels. Nothing there either. I turned the volume up until the speaker hissed at me from the seat. So the radio was probably dead. I checked the regulator next.

The connections were tight. The hoses looked fine. I breathed through it for several minutes while watching the bubbles come up beside the dinghy. They were regular. No extra noise.

No change in resistance. The first voice had either been some kind of distortion or it had come from somewhere outside the equipment, and I wasn't ready to make that second option useful. The camera needed new batteries. The first set had held through the dive, but not by much. I replaced them and changed the film.

The spool clicked into place. I closed the housing and checked the seal twice. Then I looked behind the spit. There was no workboat there. I could see the dark water and the trees beyond it.

The place where Lincoln had anchored was hidden from me. That was all I could establish from the dinghy. I wasn't going to turn a missing boat into an abandoned boat because I couldn't see around a rock. I rowed back toward the wreck. The second dive was supposed to answer a simple question.

Was the voice repeatable? Same equipment. Same water. Same general route. If it happened again, I'd have something to work with.

If it didn't, then the first one went into the report as possible distortion, which was where most unexplained things ended up when you had to submit them to a state office. I went down with the camera in one hand and the silt tools clipped to my harness. The water was just as clear as it had been the day before.

The wreck came up beneath me in pieces. First the masts. Then the lines. Then the deck and the dark shape of the rail. The Cordelia Vane looked different in the morning light.

Not newer. Just easier to see. There were patches of pale growth along the hull and dark streaks around the fittings. The wood had taken on the same color as the bottom. I expected to see the parts I had already photographed.

Instead I saw the boots. They were lined along the deck rail. Nineteen pairs. The boots had been set down in a row with the heels toward the vessel and the toes pointed out over the water. Every pair was laced.

I stopped above the deck and counted them twice. That wasn't because I couldn't count. It was because nineteen pairs of boots is the kind of thing you count twice before you decide you've seen it. They weren't scattered. They weren't piled together where the crew might've taken them off during some emergency.

They were placed. The pairs matched as far as I could tell, although the leather had gone dark and some of the soles had separated. Still, the arrangement was clear. Somebody had put them there one pair at a time. The nineteenth pair was nearest the open water.

Beside it was a bootprint. It was pressed into the silt at an angle that showed the heel and the outer edge of the sole. The marks were sharp. The water hadn't softened them yet. Sediment was moving into the grooves in thin streams.

I watched one of the edges collapse and spread. That print had been made within hours. Not one hundred fourteen years ago. Not in nineteen eleven. Hours.

I moved closer and took photographs from above. Then from the side. Then I photographed the full row so the print had a position in relation to the boots. The camera light flashed against the deck and made the leather look almost black. I put my own boot beside the print without stepping on it.

The tread was close enough in width that I couldn't rule out a match from the first look. My dive boots had a square heel and a broken line across the sole. The print showed the same general shape, although the silt had filled some of the smaller marks. I measured it with the survey scale from my tool bag.

The print was a little longer than mine. That could've been the angle. It could've been a different boot. It could've been the same boot with the heel pressed deeper into the bottom. I took a silt sample from the edge.

I used the narrow tube and worked it in slowly so I wouldn't disturb the print. The sample came up dark and clean. I capped it and marked the tube. The obvious explanation was that the salvage crew had staged the display. They'd put the boots along the rail to make the wreck look like something it wasn't.

Then somebody had walked through the silt and left a print beside them. Maybe the point was to frighten me away. Maybe they'd done it before I arrived and expected me to find it during the first dive. I hadn't seen the deck well enough then. The light had been bad and I was looking at the hull.

That made more sense than anything else. I photographed the boots again and moved toward the galley. The door was open. I had seen it the day before but hadn't gone inside because the first pass was supposed to stay outside the structure. This time I went through with the light held ahead of me.

The beam picked up the table first. There were nineteen place settings. Plates sat in front of the seats. Most of the food had gone black. Some of it had hardened into shapes I couldn't identify.

The cups and utensils were still where they'd been put. Nothing was overturned. No chair had been thrown back. There were no marks on the table or walls. If nineteen men had panicked in that room, they hadn't shown it in the furniture.

I moved the light along the benches. The wood was swollen and dark. There was no personal equipment on the floor. No dropped knife. No loose clothing.

No sign that anyone had been pulled through the walls or taken out by force, although that last part wasn't a technical conclusion and didn't belong in the report. I backed out and checked the passageway. The corridor was narrow and full of silt. I expected to find another set of tanks or a second camera rig if the salvage crew had staged the boots.

There was nothing. No extra dive gear. No lines. No tools. No damaged hatch.

The engine room was below the next section. I went down far enough to check the main compartment and the spaces around it. The machinery was rusted but still recognizable. The hatches were closed. The floor was clear except for silt and a few pieces of debris that had fallen from above.

There were no bodies. I spent several minutes searching the places where a person might've been trapped. Behind the machinery. Under the stair. Along the aft bulkhead.

Nothing. So either the salvage crew had entered the vessel without leaving equipment behind, or they hadn't entered at all. The first option was possible. A professional crew could've used gear they carried back out. They could've staged the boots and left before I arrived.

The print could've been theirs. That was still the best explanation. I returned to the deck and took one last photograph of the row. The flash went off. Nineteen pairs of boots faced the open water.

The fresh print sat beside the last pair and kept filling with silt. I started back up with the camera and the sample secured against my chest. The radio in the dinghy was dead when I reached it. Not quiet. Dead.

The display didn't light when I pressed the power button. I tried the spare battery. Nothing happened. That was an equipment failure. I broke the surface and pulled myself toward the dinghy.

The water around me was empty. I looked past the rocky spit while I took hold of the side. The workboat was gone.

So I spent the next six hours trying to get the radio to work. The spare battery didn't help. Neither did the backup unit in the survey case. I checked the connections. I checked the channels.

I held both radios above my head like that would improve the signal, which wasn't a technical procedure but was still worth trying. Nothing came through. The light changed while I worked. At first the sun was somewhere above the trees, although I couldn't see it directly. Then the water turned from gray to a dull green.

The wreck's shadow moved across the bottom. By late afternoon the deck was darker than the open water around it. I kept looking toward the rocky spit. Lincoln's boat didn't come back. The dinghy was still tied to the wreck by its painter.

I pulled it closer and searched through the equipment again. There was a spare line, two empty water bottles, a first-aid pouch, and the folded chart I'd brought from Sitka. No food beyond what I'd already eaten. No flare gun. No satellite phone.

Greyson had called the arrangement straightforward, which was accurate in the same way a locked door is easy to open if you have the key. The note was underneath the chart. It was folded once and tucked against the side of the equipment box. The paper was damp around the edges but still readable. Lincoln's handwriting was narrow and steady.

He'd written: the tide answered. I will return at first light. Do not answer it. I read it twice. There wasn't anything else on the page.

No explanation. No route back to the marina. No indication of how far outside the cove he had gone or why the tide had answered anything. Just the warning and the promise that he'd return when the light came back. I put the note in my notebook.

Then I tied the dinghy to the wreck's rail with a second line. That was when I decided to spend the night aboard the Cordelia Vane. It wasn't a good decision. It was just better than sitting in a small boat beside a dead radio and waiting for a workboat that might not be coming back.

The wreck had shelter. It had a captain's cabin. It had enough dry space for me to stay out of the water until morning. Those were practical advantages, although they would've been more convincing if the ship hadn't contained nineteen pairs of boots arranged along the rail. I took the dive light, the camera, and my notebook.

The survey case came with me too. I left the silt samples in the dinghy because I didn't want to carry everything through the wreck at once. That was probably unnecessary. I was still making decisions based on weight and equipment while ignoring the more obvious problem. The captain's cabin was behind the forward section of the deckhouse.

The door had swollen in its frame, so I had to put my shoulder against it before it opened. Inside there was a desk, a bunk, and a narrow locker bolted to the wall. The room was full of silt but not as much as the lower passageways. A brass fixture hung from the ceiling.

It moved slightly when I stepped inside. That was the first movement I'd seen in the cabin. The locker was locked. I used the flat end of a dive tool and worked it into the gap beside the latch. The metal complained before it gave.

I expected the door to bend or the tool to slip. Instead the lock broke with a small snap and the locker opened. There was a metal case inside. It was sealed and about the size of a thick book. The outside was spotted with rust, but the hinges were intact.

I carried it to the desk and set it under the dive light. The case took some work. The seal had hardened around the lid. I used the tool again and pried at one corner until air escaped with a soft hiss. Inside was a logbook wrapped in oilcloth.

The paper was dark at the edges. Some pages had stuck together. The cover had no title, but there was a name written inside the first page. Thomas Stewart. I knew the name from the wreck files.

He had been the captain of the Cordelia Vane. His name appeared on the state report and on the old crew list, although the report didn't contain anything written by him. The logbook had been inside a locked case in the captain's cabin for more than a century. That made it more useful than anything Greyson had sent me.

It also made it harder to explain the bootprint. I opened the log carefully. The first entries were ordinary. Weather. Course.

Cargo. Repairs. Thomas wrote in a formal hand and recorded things in order. The ship had left under normal conditions. The crew had nineteen men.

The first mention of the voice came several pages in. He wrote that somebody had called from the water after dark. At first the crew blamed one another. Thomas wrote that they argued over who had made the call and who had been standing near the rail when it happened. They stayed below deck after that.

They secured the doors and kept the lamps burning. The voice came again the next night. It called one man by his true name. Thomas didn't write the name. He wrote that the man answered.

Afterward the man walked calmly to the rail. He removed his boots. He laced them. Then he stepped overboard. He didn't resurface.

I stopped reading there and looked through the cabin door toward the deck. The row was still visible from where I sat. The boots pointed out over the water. The newest pair was beside the print in the silt. I went back to the log.

The next entries described the same thing happening to the others. Thomas wrote that the crew tried to resist. They stayed below deck after dark. They posted watches. They tied the hatches shut.

None of it helped. The voice used words known only to the man it called. Private words. Things from before the voyage. Thomas didn't explain what those things were, and I was glad he hadn't.

The entries became shorter after that. He recorded the boots as they were left along the rail. One pair after another. He wrote that the arrangement progressed toward the open water. The men who remained tried not to look at it.

Then they started sleeping in shifts. Then they stopped sleeping. There was no storm in the entries. No collision. No mention of a damaged hull or an emergency evacuation.

Nobody decided to abandon ship. The men answered and walked out. That was the whole sequence. The final page had only one entry. Nineteen names have been called.

Mine is the last. The writing stopped there. I turned the page. There was nothing on the back. No account of a struggle.

No change in the handwriting. No final explanation. The log ended because Thomas Stewart had answered, or because he knew he would. I read the last line again. Then I looked at the boots.

The staged-hoax explanation had been useful when the print was the only thing I had. Salvage crews staged wrecks. People planted evidence. Somebody could've brought the boots aboard and walked through the silt to leave a mark beside them. That was possible.

But the log described the boots. It described their order. It described the open rail and the men removing and lacing them before going overboard. Those details had been hidden inside the wreck. Nobody had shown them to me.

Nobody could've copied them from the report because they weren't in the report. So I stopped using the hoax explanation. I tried the phone first. No signal. I walked out onto the deck and held it above my head.

Still nothing. I called Greyson anyway. The call failed before it started. I tried the Coast Guard. Same result.

Then I called Lincoln. The phone displayed the number for a few seconds and dropped back to the home screen. The radio gave me static. I stood at the rail with the phone in one hand and the logbook in the other. The water below was darkening.

The bootprint was still there, although the edges had softened. Sediment moved through it in thin streams. I put the log in the survey case beside the camera and notebook. It was evidence now. Evidence against raising the wreck.

Evidence that the disappearance had happened one man at a time after each answer. Evidence that the official report had left out the only part that mattered. Then I closed the survey case around Thomas Stewart's log as darkness settled over Takatz Bay.

Six hours passed before anything moved. By then the cabin was dark and the water outside had turned into one flat piece of black glass. I had the emergency radio in my lap and Thomas Stewart's log on the desk beside me. The radio still gave me static. The log still gave me the same last line.

Nineteen names have been called. Mine is the last. I didn't like the way the sentence sat there. It sounded finished. The kind of finished that doesn't leave room for a better explanation.

Then something moved below the hull. It was a slow scrape at first. Not loud. More like a heavy object being pulled over the bottom. The sound came up through the floorboards and stopped under the cabin.

A few seconds later it started again. I picked up the radio. That didn't help. I wasn't sure what I expected it to do. Maybe give me a weather report.

Maybe tell me the boat had returned. Maybe just make a different noise so I wouldn't have to listen to the one beneath me. The scrape went along the bottom of the vessel. It passed under the cabin and faded toward the stern. I said Lincoln's rule out loud.

"Don't answer the water."

My voice sounded too close in the room. The cabin was small enough that it came back from the walls almost immediately. I waited for another sound. Nothing. So I opened the log again.

The pages shifted under my hand. Most of the writing was still readable, although the edges had gone soft and some of the ink had spread. Thomas had recorded the weather. The course. The crew.

Then the voice. I kept reading the same sections because reading them in order hadn't made them any more useful. The voice called. A man answered. He removed his boots and went over the rail.

Then another man. Then another. That was the sequence. There was no room for a mass hallucination. No storm.

No collision. No damaged hull. Just nineteen men hearing something and making the same decision one at a time. The scrape came back under the cabin. This time it stopped directly below me.

I put my hand on the radio and waited. "Robert."

The voice came through the hull. It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. The sound seemed to travel through the wood and the metal and the water at the same time. It was warm.

Patient. Familiar in the way a voice can be familiar before you understand the words. I didn't move.

"Robert, come home."

That was my father's voice. Not just somebody who sounded like him. Not a similar voice. The same low warmth. The same pause before my name.

Dad used that pause when I was a kid and had stayed outside too long after dark.

"Robert."

I kept my mouth shut. The voice waited. Then it said, "You know my voice." I looked at the cabin door. The deck beyond it was black.

I could see the rail through the opening and the pale shapes of the boots lined along it. There was no reason the thing below should know that phrase. It was something Dad had said when I was young. Usually from the back steps. Sometimes from the hallway when I was supposed to be asleep.

"You don't have to be afraid," it said.

The words were almost right. That was the problem. Dad would've said you don't have to worry. He didn't use afraid much. Not with me.

The voice had the cadence right, but the wording was slightly wrong, like somebody had learned the sound without learning the person. I held the radio tighter.

"Robert, come home."

The sound came at regular intervals after that. Every few minutes. Always through the hull. Sometimes from beneath the cabin. Sometimes from farther aft.

Once it seemed to come from the deck above me, although I was alone in the room. I didn't answer. The first hour was easy enough. I could sit still for an hour. Most people could.

The second hour was different. My mouth kept forming the beginning of a reply before I stopped it. I wanted to say I was here. I wanted to ask where he was. I wanted to hear the voice say something that would settle the question.

It never settled anything. "Robert."

A pause. "Please come home."

The pleading began after that. Dad had never pleaded with me. Not in the memories I had. He'd waited. He'd asked once and then waited longer.

The voice below didn't know how to wait. "Robert, I know you can hear me."

I put the radio on the desk and stood up. That wasn't a decision. I just stood. The room had become too small, which was a reasonable response to a room that was already too small. The voice continued.

"Come home, Robert."

I walked toward the door. I knew what I was doing. I also knew I wasn't choosing it. Those facts didn't fit together very well, but they were both true. My hand reached the doorframe.

The deck shifted under my boots, although the ship had been sitting still all night. Then I was beside the rail. The nineteen pairs of boots were still lined up along it. They pointed toward the water. The last pair sat closest to the open side of the deck, with the fresh print beside it.

I looked over. There were people below the surface. At first I saw only the tops of their heads. Then the water cleared around them. They stood on the bottom in a row beneath the ship, their faces turned upward.

Their mouths moved, but the water carried no sound. They were barefoot. Their feet were pale against the dark silt. I counted nineteen. I stopped counting because I already knew the number.

More figures stood behind them. They hadn't been there when I first looked. Or I'd missed them in the dark. Either explanation was possible. I didn't have enough light to tell where the first group ended and the second began.

One of the figures was taller than the others. The shoulders were narrow. The head leaned slightly forward. The posture was familiar in a way the face wasn't. It looked like Dad standing in the kitchen when he was waiting for the coffee to finish.

"Robert."

The voice had changed. It was still using Dad's rhythm, but the warmth had gone out of it.

"Answer me."

I gripped the rail. The pressure in my ears increased. It felt like descending too fast, although I was standing on the deck. The sound stretched and broke apart. I could hear the spaces between the words.

The pause before Robert. The rise at the end of the sentence. The small drop in pitch when it asked me to come home. It wasn't Dad's voice. It was copying Dad's cadence.

That distinction was all I had left. "Robert," it said again.

I stepped back from the rail. The figure below moved when I did. Not forward. Just enough to show that it had been watching me. Then the voice became angry.

"Robert, answer me."

The words came harder. The hull vibrated beneath my boots. Water struck the side of the vessel, although there was no wind and no surface movement that I could see. I looked at the line coiled beside the mast. I didn't think through the plan.

That would've implied I had one. I took the emergency radio, carried it to the mast, and tied the radio strap around my wrist. Then I pulled the line free and wrapped it around my torso. The voice kept calling.

"Robert."

I tied one loop around my chest. Then another. My hands were shaking enough that the knots came out wrong. I redid them. The line tightened across my ribs when I leaned toward the rail.

That was the point. I went back to the captain's cabin and found a strip of tape in the survey case. It was meant for sealing sample bags. I tore off a piece and pressed it across my mouth. The adhesive pulled at my skin.

The voice said, "Robert, come home." I carried Thomas's log back onto the deck and held it against my chest. The oilcloth was cold through my shirt. I tucked the bottom edge under one arm so I wouldn't drop it if I stopped controlling my hands. The figures remained below the hull.

Their mouths kept moving. The taller one stood behind the others with its head angled toward me. I didn't answer. The voice continued through the night. When the first light reached the cove, I was still silent and bound to the mast with Thomas Stewart's log against my chest.

The voice stopped when the light reached the water. Or maybe it kept going and I just couldn't hear it over the workboat engine coming from beyond the rocky spit. Lincoln called to me from the other side.

"Robert."

I looked toward the sound. The boat stayed out of sight.

"Can you get to the dinghy?"

I pulled at the line around my chest. My hands were stiff and the knots had tightened during the night. I had tied myself to the mast because I didn't trust what I might do if I stayed loose. That seemed like a reasonable decision at the time. In the morning it meant I had to work through wet rope with numb fingers while the captain's log was tucked under my arm.

The first knot came free. The second didn't. Lincoln called again.

"Robert."

"I'm here."

I hadn't meant to answer him that quickly. My voice came out rough behind the tape. The voice below the hull didn't answer. That was the first useful difference between them. I got the second knot loose and pulled the line away from my chest.

Then I took the tape off my mouth. It left a strip of skin behind, or at least it felt like it had. I picked up the survey case and the sealed metal case with Thomas Stewart's log inside. The cameras and samples were in the dinghy. The radio was too.

I left the emergency radio on the deck because it had already failed twice and I didn't want to carry another dead object. The boots were still along the rail. I didn't look at them for long. They were just boots. That was the explanation I used while climbing into the dinghy.

Leather and water and silt. Nothing else had to be added. I rowed around the rocky spit. Lincoln had brought the workboat close enough that I could see him at the wheel, but he hadn't entered the cove. The distance between us wasn't more than a few boat lengths.

He still waited for me to cross it. "Bring the case," he said.

"I have it."

"And the log."

"I have that too."

He watched me row. I had to keep the dinghy straight because the water kept turning it toward the rocks. The oars made small sounds as they entered the surface. The bay was quiet again. It had been quiet before the voice started and after it stopped, which didn't make the quiet less useful as evidence.

When I reached the workboat, Lincoln leaned over and cut the painter loose. Then he took the survey case from me and set it behind the wheelhouse. He reached for the tape still stuck to my face.

"Hold still."

"I can do it."

He cut the rest away with a small knife. The blade passed close enough to my mouth that I stopped talking. Then he folded the tape and put it in his pocket.

"Did you answer the voice?"

"No."

He looked at me for a few seconds. Then he nodded. He didn't ask what it had called me. That was probably . I didn't tell him.

Some details were harder to explain after they were spoken out loud, and I had already spent enough time listening to my father's voice come through a ship that had been underwater for more than a century. Lincoln started the engine. The workboat turned away from the cove without going in. The Cordelia Vane disappeared behind the rocky spit.

A few minutes later the masts were hidden too. My ears cleared sometime during the crossing. It happened gradually. First the pressure eased on the right side. Then the left opened with a small pop that made me flinch.

I could hear the engine better after that. I could hear water against the hull. I could hear Lincoln breathing beside me. I swallowed and waited for the pressure to return. It didn't.

"How long does that last?"

I asked. "What?"

"The pressure. In the ears."

"Until the bay lets go."

I looked at him. He kept steering.

"That isn't a measurement."

"No."

I waited. He didn't add anything. Lincoln was good at answering the question he thought mattered and leaving the rest for somebody else.

"Why does it happen?"

"The bay stops a diver's ears."

"That doesn't explain it."

"It doesn't need to."

I rubbed the side of my head. The skin there hurt from the tape and the cold.

"I heard the voice through the regulator."

"You heard it through the water."

"It sounded like it was inside my head."

"That is what happens."

I turned toward him. "You knew that could happen?"

"Yes."

"You knew before you left me there?"

"Yes."

That was when I understood why he hadn't come into the cove. It wasn't because of the signal. It wasn't because the pilots had their reasons. Lincoln had left me at the wreck because he wouldn't bring the workboat near it. He kept watching the water.

"The bay muffles everything," he said.

"A diver hears the call and believes it comes from inside his own skull."

"The crew heard it that way?"

"The men heard who they remembered."

"Thomas wrote that it called them by private names."

Lincoln nodded. "A man hears his father. Or his wife. Or the person he trusts."

"Then why would the muffling help?"

"Because a clear voice can be questioned."

He adjusted the wheel as the boat moved into rougher water. "A voice inside your head is different. You don't wait to understand it. You answer first."

I thought about the way I'd stood beside the rail. My hand on the wood. My body leaning forward before I had made any decision. The thing hadn't dragged me. It hadn't forced me down.

It had used a familiar voice and waited for me to do the rest. Lincoln said, "The men answered before they knew what they were doing." I looked at the sealed case between my boots.

"Then Thomas didn't answer."

"Thomas answered."

"His log says his name was last."

Lincoln's hands stayed steady on the wheel. "He wrote it before he went."

The rest of the crossing took most of the morning. My ears kept clearing and stopping and clearing again. I checked the log twice. I checked the photographs. I checked the silt samples even though the tubes were sealed and there wasn't anything I could do with them on the boat.

Greyson was waiting in Sitka. He stood beside the dock in the same waterproof jacket he'd worn when I left. It was expensive enough that the salt water hadn't changed its appearance. He looked at the survey case first. Then at me.

"You were gone longer than scheduled," he said.

"Your pilot left."

"Lincoln had transportation obligations."

"Lincoln left me at the wreck."

Greyson looked past me toward the workboat. Lincoln had already shut down the engine. He didn't come ashore.

"What did you find?"

Greyson asked. I set the survey case on the dock and opened it. The photographs were dry inside the housing. The silt samples were intact. Thomas's log was still sealed in the metal case.

"The hull is stable," I said.

"There is no collision damage. No breach. No evidence of an accident."

"Good."

"The vessel should not be raised."

Greyson's face changed slightly. Not much. His mouth tightened and then went back to its usual position.

"That isn't your recommendation."

"It is now."

I gave him the photographs. The row of boots. The print beside the last pair. The galley table with nineteen place settings. The open companionway.

I gave him the silt sample from around the print. "The crew wasn't murdered," I said.

"They weren't lost in an accident either. They answered something beneath the water."

Greyson looked at the photographs without picking them up. "You were hired to assess the wreck," he said.

"Not tell stories about it."

"This is evidence."

"This is a staged arrangement of equipment."

"The print was fresh."

"That doesn't establish anything."

I put the metal case on the dock between us. "The captain's log does."

Greyson looked at it. "The log wasn't part of the contracted materials."

"It was inside the captain's cabin."

"Then it belongs to the salvage operation."

"The salvage operation shouldn't happen."

Greyson picked up the photographs and put them back into the case. "The contract is withdrawn."

"Greyson."

"The remaining fee is not payable."

I stood there with the metal case in my hands. The state rejected my recommendation by the end of the week. They retained the Cordelia Vane as a wreck of undetermined cause. The salvage outfit abandoned the raising project after the paperwork became more expensive than the vessel was worth. Greyson said that was a documentation issue, not a conclusion.

He took back the unpaid contract papers from the survey case while I held Thomas Stewart's sealed captain's log and received no money.

By the time I got back from Alaska, the payment date had already passed. That was one of the problems with being gone. The calendar kept moving even when the boat didn't. I still had the logbook and the survey report. The logbook was in the metal case from Thomas's cabin.

The report was in a folder beside it. Those were the only records I had left from Takatz Bay, unless you counted the photographs, which Greyson had taken back when he collected the rest of the contract papers. I couldn't send Jasmine the money. I told her that over the phone. She didn't argue with me.

She just said she would go through the court, which was what she'd said before the trip and what she'd said after I got back. Jasmine didn't threaten things she didn't intend to do. She filed the paperwork. The payment became another judgment against me, or maybe it had always been that. I stopped trying to understand the difference.

The university didn't renew my adjunct contract. They said the department was restructuring. That was the word in the email. Restructuring meant the office was gone, the boiler belonged to somebody else, and I no longer had a place to leave my jacket during the day. I sent out applications for other work.

Most of them wanted references. I had references, technically. Greyson wouldn't answer. The university would confirm that I'd worked there and nothing more. When I tried to explain the survey, I usually stopped before I got to the part about the boots.

There wasn't a good place for that part. So I kept the log and the report in my apartment. The metal case sat under the desk. The report stayed in a drawer because the desk was already crowded with bills and court notices. I moved the papers around when I needed the drawer, then put them back in the same order.

I didn't read Thomas's last entry often. I knew what it said. Nineteen names have been called. Mine is the last. That sentence had been written more than a century before I found it.

It still managed to sound like something waiting for me. Jasmine came by in the evening. I was at the desk with the survey report open in front of me. I wasn't working on it. I had been looking at the same photograph for several minutes.

The image showed the row of boots along the rail. The water was green around them and clear enough that the open bay showed beyond the wreck. I heard the door open behind me. Then Jasmine said, "Robert." I flinched hard enough to knock the report off the desk.

It slid onto the floor. I turned around. She was standing in the doorway. She had one hand on the frame and the other around a folder. Her hair was pulled back, and she was wearing the kind of sweater she wore when she came to discuss money.

I knew that sweater. I'd seen it across tables and in the hallway outside the courthouse. For a second I didn't know where I was. Then I saw the apartment. The desk.

The metal case under it. Jasmine in the doorway.

"Never call me from behind again," I said.

She looked at me. "I said your name."

"I know."

"I didn't call from behind you. I was in the doorway."

"It doesn't matter."

She didn't step inside. Jasmine was good at stopping where she meant to stop. She had done it during arguments, too. She'd stand near the door and let the silence make the rest of the point.

"Robert," she said.

I stood up so fast the chair rolled backward. "Don't."

She watched me for a moment. "You need to answer the court."

"I know."

"The payment is still due."

"I know that too."

"The university isn't paying you anymore."

"They declined to renew the contract."

"That means they're not paying you."

"Yes."

She opened the folder. I could see forms inside, but I didn't look closely enough to know what they were. I already knew what they would say. Jasmine didn't bring papers to show me that everything was fine.

"I have heard this before," she said.

"I don't have the money."

"You told me you would send it after the survey."

"I didn't get paid for the survey."

She looked past me at the desk. At the photograph. At the report on the floor.

"What happened?" she asked.

I could've told her about the hull. The intact fittings. The nineteen place settings. The boots. Thomas's log.

The voice that sounded like my father and wasn't my father. I could've explained the water and the pressure and the way the sound had come through the vessel. None of it would've explained why I hadn't answered.

"The survey was rejected," I said.

"Why?"

"There was no cause."

She waited. I picked up the report and put it back on the desk.

"The official report says nothing about a cause."

Jasmine looked at me. She had heard me say that before, although not about this. It was the kind of sentence I used when I wanted a fact to do the work of an explanation.

"Can you pay anything?" she asked.

"No."

She closed the folder. "Then I will continue through the court."

"All right."

She nodded once. "Robert."

I looked at her. She didn't say anything else. That was how Jasmine ended things when she was done. She left the room with the sentence still standing there. After she went, I sat back down and listened to the apartment.

The refrigerator came on in the kitchen. A car passed outside. Somewhere above me, a pipe clicked in the wall. Ordinary sounds. I had started sorting them without meaning to.

A pipe was a pipe. A car was a car. A voice was a voice until it came from somewhere it shouldn't. I never returned to Takatz Bay. I didn't go back to the wreck, and nobody asked me to.

The salvage project was abandoned after the state rejected my recommendation and Greyson decided the paperwork cost more than the vessel was worth. The Cordelia Vane stayed where it had been found. Upright in forty feet of clear water. I kept Thomas's log. I kept the report.

I kept the photographs Greyson hadn't taken, even though they didn't prove what I needed them to prove. They showed a wreck with no damage and boots facing the open water. They showed a fresh print beside the last pair. They showed a galley set for nineteen men who never came back to eat. I couldn't tell anyone why they vanished.

Not in a way that would survive a report or a hearing or a conversation with somebody who expected the facts to stay in their proper places. I could say the men disappeared. I could say the vessel had no collision damage. I could say the water carried a voice. After that, people waited for the rest of the sentence.

There wasn't a rest of the sentence. Sometimes I still hear my name from below the water. It isn't always loud. Sometimes it sounds like it has traveled a long way. Sometimes it sounds close enough that I can hear the pause before the word.

Robert. I don't answer. The first time it happened after Alaska, I was washing a glass in the kitchen. The water was running from the tap. It came through the pipes and said my name in the space between one sound and the next.

I shut off the faucet and stood there with the glass in my hand. Nothing else happened. That was the rule. If my name came from below the water, I didn't answer. I didn't ask who was there.

I didn't explain the possible distortion. I didn't try to separate my father's voice from the thing that had learned how to use it. I just stayed quiet. Under Takatz Bay, the Cordelia Vane remains upright beneath clear water. The nineteen pairs of boots face the open bay, and I stay silent when my name rises from below.