Logs in the Channel

Pip was already hopping hard when the tide changed.

He stood on the wet planks beside Mossy Lantern Harbor, his crooked foot tapping as he stared toward the narrow channel. Small boats used that sliver of water to slip out to sea, and Pip wanted to be the first to spot what was wrong. If he could point to the problem before anyone else, Brindle and Mira would have to see that even a tiny gull chick could be useful.

Then a wave rolled in and pushed a line of heavy driftwood closer together.

The logs were long and gray and water-dark, like the sea had tied them into a rough fence. Each bump of the water nudged them sideways. Each shove made the gap smaller. Near the pier, Brindle stood tall and straight on a post, watching the channel with a tight, careful look. “Stay back, Pip,” he called, as if Pip were made of feathers and trouble.

Mira lingered near the pier rail in her yellow raincoat, looking from the water to the logs and back again. She did not say much.

Pip puffed his chest and took one quick hop, then another. If he could only get close enough to see the whole line, he could prove it. But Brindle was already there, and the next wave was already moving the driftwood again.