PORTSTEAD — GLASS HARBOR BRIDGE — CONTINUOUS
The sea rose in sentences.
Not metaphorically.
Actually.
Lines of black text climbed up the harbor water like roots pulling the tide upright. A wall of ocean formed beneath the bridge, but instead of foam and current, it was made of liquid words—phrases slamming into each other, unfinished clauses, fragments of endings trying to become disaster.
Pell stood at the center of it with his folio open, pages whipping around him like wings.
He looked ecstatic.
Which was how I knew he was the kind of man who should never be allowed near a philosophy text or a coastline.
"Pell!" Mercedes snapped. "That's not the plan!"
He didn't look at her.
"There is no plan anymore!" he shouted over the roaring text-sea. "She changed the rules! If consent governs narrative, then force must govern reality!"
The wave surged higher.
Portstead screamed.
I could hear it all the way from the bridge.
Not just the people.
The city itself.
