“Then what can I do?” he asked. Mara leaned back, studying him. “Your own work,” she said. “Your dock. Your licensed workspace. Your legal hours. Your lawful equipment. They came here because they wanted a real fishing harbor. Have you considered giving them one?”
Elias frowned. “They already have one.” Mara shook her head. “No. They have the pretty version. Weathered wood without rot. Nets without slime. Fishermen without exhaustion. Boats without stink. They want the picture, Elias. They do not want the truth.”