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say whether she can get me a job. Is it that easy to tell I wouldn’t be able to hang at a place like the Gazette ?
    Rosie comes out on the porch. She sticks her hand out and waits for an introduction. “Rosalind Salem,” I say. “Leah Lynch.”
    Rosie says, “Pleasure to meet you. You want some eggs?”
    “No thanks,” Leah says. “Is this your place?”
    “Might as well be,” Rosie says. “It’s my tin can coffin. Where are you headed?”
    “Out to Deep’s,” Leah says, “though I can’t imagine—”
    The train signals flash and clang and the chugging of the engine approaching drowns out what she’s saying.
    “Eleven forty-two,” Rosie calls over the racket.
    Leah covers her ears and watches. Little pieces of her hair flick around her face and the sun is blazing away but she keeps her eyes open. They shudder back and forth, constantly settling on different parts of the train passing by.

7

    Leah
    D eep’s Fish Market sits in a wide, unkempt lot of reeds. In the reeds are dead boats, moldering and full of bugs. I pull out my notebook. I always have my notebook with me. The slop and pull of the water is loud enough that Quinn raises her voice to speak to me. “The party line is disappearing marine real estate,” Quinn says. “Just FYI.”
    FYI? “How do you know what the story is already?” I say. “How do you know the real estate is disappearing?”
    Quinn points at several hand-painted signs, staked in the yard: VOTE NO ON PROP . 2! and KEEP OUR WATERS , KEEP YOUR DINNER !
    “So it’s an election story,” I say. “Concerning the upcoming issues for the town vote.”
    Quinn shakes her head and pushes up her sweatshirt sleeves. “Come on, there’s Billy now.” She points at an anemic-looking boy with a blue knit cap pulled over his ears. He has enormous dark eyes, features too dainty for a fisherman, and a sideways smile. I present my hand for him to shake. The kid cocks his head and then smacks my hand like a high five.
    “My da’s in the boat,” he says, already loping toward the wharf. “He’s got the Star real clean for you. Figured she’s the one you’d want.”
    Quinn vigorously scratches her scalp. “You have any Dramamine, Gazette?”
    Down where the boats are tied up is a man Billy has no chance of equaling. Joseph Deep looks not a bit off balance as the lobster boat he stands in shifts from side to side. Fortysomething, there is a little gray in the hair that curls over his ears. He is wearing a hat like Billy’s, with an embroidered logo on it that reads DEEP ’ S MARKET , EST. 1952 . He has the brightest blue eyes and a Black Irish complexion. His jaw is set hard but there is humor in this face that might be unlocked at any second.
    “Joseph. Nice to meet you,” he says, and immediately grabs my hand. I watch him notice that it is approximately the size of his own. I think he’s going to shake it but instead he helps me aboard, one hand on the small of my back. Squatting in the back of the boat is the boy in the cap, Billy. He is chewing something. There’s an inch and a half of water sloshing around the boat bottom and my shoes soak through. The water is very cold. Billy is wearing rubber galoshes, and dozens of sunflower-seed husks are floating around his feet. He spits.
    “You wanna life jacket?” he says.
    “I’m an excellent swimmer,” I say.
    “You’ll jump in and save her, though, won’t you, Billy?” says Quinn. Joseph has now extended his hand to Quinn but she says, “I wasn’t expecting a boat, Joe.”
    I look over the side of the boat and the lettering says THE MENAMON STAR , next to which is an image of a compass rose. I think maybe we should use this image on the newspaper masthead. I wonder whether the paper is named for the boat. Quinn and I put on our life vests. Damp and salty, mine rides up too high on my chest. Cages are stacked in the back. Rubber bands coil in a bucket. Billy picks up a gauge from a box of metal tools and starts