But when the winch turned, the rope came up almost weightless. The mesh broke the surface, limp and dripping. Elias did not curse. He did not shout. He stood very still while kelp slid across the deck like something dead.
The champagne cork rolled against his boot, and something inside him hardened. The fish were gone from the cove. His work had been mocked, filmed, blocked, and poisoned by light. His quiet life had been turned into someone else’s costume.