The First Small Thing

Jessa was already writing in her notebook. “The first thing happened. The second one will too. We need to go to the dock.” Cal looked less brave in daylight, but he still shoved his drumsticks into his pocket. “If somebody is messing with us, I’m broadcasting them right into expulsion.” They didn’t make it to noon before the ferry dock went bad. Eddie Mott, a sixty-something local who’d spent his life patching nets and fixing boats, had spent the night bragging in the convenience store about how he used to drink whiskey on the radio tower when he was young. By 1:47 p.m., Sheriff Dale Harker was pulling him out from a pile of snapped chain by the dock. Eddie was already dead.