Deepwater
The ocean takes themβ the men in orange, their names stitched to salt-heavy sleeves, their boots filled with black water, their last words swallowed whole. It keeps their secrets. The deals struck in bar-light, the hands greased with oil and promise, the fear that hums beneath metal grates. It takes the broken rig, the snapped rope, the breath that never made it back. But not theirs. Not the ones in suits, in rooms high above the tide. Not the ones who sign papers with hands clean of crude. Not the ones who say progress and mean profit. The ocean spits their lies back, coats the shore in their silence, blackens the wings of gulls, writes their names in dead coral, burns their reflection in a rising tide. One day, the water will rise to meet them. ...