Mina stood on the lowest wharf step with her satchel bumping against her side, counting the harbor markers one by one. The markers were painted posts that helped boats find the safe water and the edges of the docks. Usually, they were easy to spot: red, white, blue, all lined up along the river bend like patient little teeth.
Tonight, a thick fog rolled in over Buttonwharf Hollow. It pressed down over the lanterns so their light looked soft and sleepy. It slid between the wharves, tucked under ropes, and made the wooden steps seem farther away than they really were.
Mina leaned forward. One marker near the lower docks had already faded to a blur. Then another vanished, as if the fog had snuffed it out with a damp hand. A little boat bumped gently against its mooring rope, turning its nose toward the wrong side of the dock.
Mina’s eyes flew from the river to the steps and back again. The docks she had just checked a moment ago looked different now, as if the safe edges of the hollow were slipping behind a curtain.
She could still see the last bright marker at the bend of the water, but only just. If she hurried, she might reach the lower docks before they disappeared. If she called out, maybe someone with a lantern would answer. And if she followed that last marker into the fog, she might find where the docks had gone.
Mina drew a small breath and listened to the quiet water. Which way should she go?
What happens next?
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