Tortus Bay

2.04: Covert Messages

Howard, the unfortunately proportioned manager-owner of Horizon Foods, leaned against the register with a frown on his pale lips. The store had been open for almost an hour, but the doors remained locked. "You missed two full shifts."

Henry tried his best to remain calm. They were going around in circles. "I had no idea I was scheduled."

"You're my only employee right now," he said, for the tenth time in a row. "Do you know what happens when you decide not to show up? I have to cover for you. Don't you think I have more important things to be doing?"

"I think about five people come through this store on a busy day."

"Shipping. Receiving." He stuck up a finger with each over-enunciated word. "Inventory. Payments. Advertising."

Many aspects of life were different in Tortus Bay. Some were down to the slower pace of a small town, and others were downright fantastic. The one unifying constant between the old and new worlds seemed to be a reddening man listing off vague business terms as a threat. Henry couldn't imagine why that would be the case, but there was the proof throwing spittle in his face. "Howie, do you believe in magic?"

"What?" His face contorted in fury. "You think I'm being funny? Do you know what you are? You're a criminal. That's right, I know where you were: in the clink! That's what I get for trusting a reference from Clair. That's what I get for offering people second chances. What do you think about that?"

"I think you should either fire me, or let me get to my job."

"Then start working!"

After a confrontation like that, there was a soothing simplicity to be found in the inventory. Henry knew from long ago that the trick to endurance was in maintaining a healthy mental distance from the world. To that end he focused his thoughts that morning on the beautiful engravings on Emmaline Cass' headstone, and the comforting warmth of Niles' lips. He held that beauty and that warmth up as a shield, and with it could have bore a century of pointless abuse.

In the storeroom he busied himself with the rote repetition of grouping like with like—creating mountains of vegetables and imposing bunkers of colorful cardboard boxes. It looked as though nobody had touched a thing in his absence. That, at least, was how he wanted it; there was no reason to waste extra time sorting out whatever chaos Howie would have created.

He saved the most cumbersome group of the lot, the canned goods, for the end. It was there, halfway through unboxing a crate of baked beans, that he noticed a torn label. Underneath the tear, the label bulged as though someone had stuck something inside. A folded slip of paper. There was a single line of clean print inside: 'Help. I'm trapped in the beans! Can anyone hear me?'

Howard's footsteps startled him. The man was making quite a show of walking around the place in a huff, talking loudly on his phone about all of the vital store functions which were now hopelessly delayed and which he personally had to set right. His voice and his heavy footfalls echoed around the empty space. He had forgotten to unlock the front doors.

Henry set the can aside, and went about the rest of his shift, thinking idly of how nice it would be to have a different job. Even the orchards, or the fishery, didn't strike him as that bad of a prospect in that moment—if only he could keep up. As it was, his shoulder hurt too badly for him to do the job he already had. He stocked the shelves with his good arm, one item at a time. Box after box after box after box.

He imagined a life in which he could craft necklaces for a living. He imagined a life in which he could mix poultices in peace in his kitchen. He imagined any life, in a healthy body. The shield over his heart melted into a dagger pressed into the flesh. At the end of his shift, he returned to the storeroom and scribbled a short reply on the opposite side of the hidden paper: 'Only I, lowly grocery servant. Can you swim?'