Mira was on the lower steps of Kelpbone Steps, where the black stone stayed cool and damp even in the morning sun. She was helping Tobin sort shrimp baskets for the market, sliding the small ones to the left and the heavy ones to the right. The wind came in a quick burst and tugged at her yellow oilskin coat, then slipped away again.
Above them, Sella sat on her shell crate and sang a little counting song while she lined up pink shells on the edge of the step. Below, a skiff bumped the floating dock with a hollow tap-tap. Tobin reached for a basket handle and said, “Careful, Mira. I’ve got it.”
Mira had just opened her mouth to say she knew that when a shout came from the landing above. “Who moved the tide rope?” a dockhand called. “The skiff line is too short!”
Mira looked down. One of the mooring ropes had slipped loose and dragged across the wet step. It was now hooked around the leg of the basket she had moved, and the skiff below was drifting a little too far from the dock.
Tobin frowned hard. “Stay here,” he said, already turning toward the landing above.
But Mira could see two things at once: the rope was pulling, and Sella was leaning forward to get a better look. If Mira waited, the basket might slide. If she acted fast, she might fix it before anyone else did. She had to choose: call for Tobin, grab the rope herself, or go after the drifting skiff line below.
What happens next?
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