The Voice I Refused

I wanted Ellis’s breathing more than I wanted to admit. For one second, the radio gave me something solid, and I nearly stepped back toward the wharf without thinking. Nearly. The fresh sea-boot prints and that taut rope were harder to argue with. A voice can be bait. A wet line disappearing toward the crane can still become a hand around my throat.

The worst part was not doubt. It was speed. I can still feel the old impulse to move toward the one familiar sound before I have worked out who placed it there. At twenty, I did the same thing with water: heard something that sounded like permission and rushed in without measuring the cost. I told myself the difference was that I was older and this was only a rope. That was convenient. Dangerous things rarely wait for us to become sensible.

Dain talking about the dead crewmen made the room feel too small. I wanted to stop him, and I wanted him to keep talking, because an honest account still left me responsible for noticing too late. I hate being warned about. I hate worse when the warning proves I was already looking the wrong way.

At the pub, anger gave me the cleanest place to put my fear. I stepped between the men before either of them did something I would have to regret. No grand rescue. No clever answer. Just my body arriving before my judgment again.

In the ute, I kept waiting for the radio to speak. I did not answer. That restraint felt less like wisdom than fear wearing a uniform.