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the work we done. So maybe they wouldn’t call the cops.’
    ‘Hand me that wrench,’ I said. I began removing the valve cover nuts.
    Lynk said, ‘How the fuck do you know what you’re doing?’
    ‘My dad is a professional mechanic, jerk. Remember? I’ve helped him lots of times.’
    ‘Can you get parts?’ Roland asked, pausing to look over at Gribbs’s cabin, which was just visible behind another yacht.
    ‘Maybe.’ With a grunt I lifted one of the valve covers. ‘Look at that!’ Everyone bent close. ‘No rust! Still got oil in it, that’s fucking great.’
    The others cleaned the cabin while I continued working on the engine. Bringing it back from the dead. They’d probably thank us if they ever found out. I made a list in my head of what I’d need: new gaskets, plugs, oil, a battery. As I worked I saw the oil staining my hands and forearms. Perfect. Just like Dad, and I’ll have to use that jelly soap to clean up, only I’ll have to do that in the garage, before anyone sees me.
    ‘Wait till school’s over,’ Lynk said from the cabin. ‘Then we’ll have tons of time. Sand these cupboards, get some marine paint.’
    I smiled to myself.
    II
    The old tea kettle whistled a song of steam. Walter Gribbs rose from his chair and crossed the musty dimness of the room. The nightmares of the previous night remained only as the faintest residue in his mind. Now, the sunlight’s warmth coming in through the cabin’s single window suffused him, soothing his bones, calming his thoughts.
    The black iron stove filled one corner of the room. The kitchen counter consisted of three warped six-by-two boards; a single shelf above it held his metal plates and cutlery. The sink was a galvanised washtub with a hole punched through its bottom, a rubber hose providing drainage to a sinkhole under the outhouse. His food came from cans, since he had no refrigerator. His furniture consisted of a narrow cot with squeaking springs, a wooden Coca-Cola box for a table where he ate and played Solitaire, two kerosene lanterns, and an adjustable russet-brown easy chair.
    It was enough. Most of the time Gribbs believed in his own contentment. They’d put him here to watch the yards, and he’d been doing just that for twenty years. His grocery lists were always filled and there was a bank account in his name. When the time came to launch the yachts or haul them up, he showed his employers a benign smile and they were pleased at just how contented he was.
    He placed two used tea bags into a chipped ceramic pot, then poured water from the kettle. The air was tinted grey with woodsmoke, stinging his eyes. He would have to do something about the stovepipe. He placed the teapot and a chipped china cup on the old STP Oil sign he used for a tray. He carried the tray back to his chair, set it down on the table and then resumed his seat.
    The window fronting the shack was on his left: he faced the wall, which was covered with calendars. The most recent year was 1962. Some went back to the thirties. All the photographs and illustrations were of sailing ships, and he knew their every line.
    Walter poured the tea. He raised the cup to his lips, blew gently, then sipped once and set the cup back down. He squinted at the ships on the wall, trying to clear the blur from his gaze. It was that damned smoke, he told himself, that made things so hard to see. He would have to do something about that. For now, he simply moved his chair closer to the wall.
    For a moment he thought he heard voices outside. He listened, but there was nothing but the cawing of crows from the garbage dump. Walter leaned back and rubbed his large, veined nose, then sighed.
    They had put him here to watch the yards. To mark the waxing tide grow, wave by wave. He smiled as the lines rolled through his thoughts. But that wasn’t why he stayed. He had his own reasons. While he knew and loved every yacht that wintered in his dry-docks, it had become a difficult thing to watch over