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“It’s broken,” I say.

“Those facts can coexist.”

Ezra lifts his camera. The shutter clicks. He compares the image to an older photograph on his phone. “The east rail used to continue. Maybe another six feet.”

Pepper points toward the far bank. “The channel shifted.”

I step onto the first submerged board and test it. Solid. The second moves beneath my boot.

“Fifteen minutes,” Pepper says softly.

I look back.

Her eyes are bright, but not reckless. “Past the bridge. If it’s bad, we turn back.”

Last night echoes through me. “Agreed,” I say.

She squeezes my hand.

For half the crossing, it feels almost easy. Then the route stone glows inside Pepper’s bag. The air feels dense, a low frequency humming through the air. Birdsong cuts off.

Pepper stops.

“What?”

She points toward the far side. The carved marker there has been scraped nearly smooth. Pale grit clings inside the damaged grooves. A rope hangs from one post, severed cleanly near the waterline. The cut is fresh.

Ezra lowers the camera.

A motorcycle engine starts beyond the trees on the swamp bank. My body turns toward it before thought can catch me. Black movement flashes through the brush.

Old instinct rises hard and fast. Follow. Find him. End the threat before it circles back.

Pepper’s boot slips. Her hand jerks inside mine. Ezra flickers at the shoulder.

I fight the instinct until my teeth ache, then pull Pepper against me and brace Ezra with my other arm.

The motorcycle tears away through the pines.

Pepper looks up at me, breathing hard. “You wanted to go after them.”

“Yes.”

“But you stayed.”

I swallow against the roughness in my throat. “I said I would.”

Ezra presses his solid hand to my chest.

We remain there until Pepper’s footing steadies. Then she crouches beside the damaged marker. Beneath the scraped surface, one carved line survives. It points east.

Ezra checks the old photograph again. “The water used to run behind that ridge.”

Pepper studies the modern channel, then the line hidden beneath the damage. “The flood moved it.”

The route stone glows inside her bag.

Ahead of us, beyond the drowned bridge, a narrow ribbon of clear water slips between cypress roots where no current appears on the map. Pepper looks toward it with wonder first, then caution. A dark shape floats where the clear water meets the tea-colored swamp.