Snapper rose with the dawn, took a deep breath of the misty ocean breeze passing through the open window, and promptly went back to sleep.

An hour later, the raucous cawing of seagulls stirred Snapper back into wakefulness. He put on the reed hat, selected a few woodworking tools, and headed out to the shed at the coast-facing edge of his property. There was an old rowboat that he had been meaning to fix for the last few weeks, but he had never quite gotten around to it. If he could patch up the leaks by noon today, there would still be time for an off-shore fishing session before sunset.

The rowboat barely fit in the shed amid all of the other relics of fifty-some years that Snapper did not remember. Seeing the items in the shed always made Snapper’s eyes sting and his breaths grow uneven, and thus he had put off fixing the rowboat until now. However, today, he would not be overcome. He squeezed himself between the boat and piled-up items, regarding the cracked hull with a critical gaze. Working on the boat within the shed would be a challenge due to the limited space. He pushed the boat outside, settling down with relief once there was enough space to spread out the tools.

The boat was not terribly damaged—a few cracked boards, a missing nail here and there, and black streaks across one end that resembled scorch marks. The cracks and leaks were minor enough not to compromise the overall structure of the boat, and Snapper spent the better part of the morning rubbing sticky pitch into the gaps to waterproof the hull. Despite the messy work, every square inch of progress brought him a renewed sense of satisfaction.

When the rowboat was sufficiently waterproofed, the sun shone high in the east. The tides would be at their lowest around now, making it the ideal time to launch a boat from the shallows. Snapper gathered a pair of oars, a fishing pole, and a woven-reed rain cover. Now that the leaks were fixed, the boat could be safely stored by the seaside docks instead of the shed. First, however, the boat owed him a test excursion. Humming a simple tune, Snapper began to drag the repaired boat toward the shore.

He was halfway to the shore when a shout carried across the air.

“Old fellow, wait up!” A memorable and thoroughly unwelcome set of running footsteps approached.

If Snapper had not been lugging a boat over twice his size, he might have dashed off in the opposite direction. Only the hours of labor invested in the repairs kept him in place, but he still heaved a long sigh. Watching Kite torment harmless wildlife would ruin an otherwise perfect offshore fishing opportunity.

Footsteps slid to a stop at Snapper’s side, and Kite bounced into his field of view. The youth still wore the same dark clothes and sword as before, but he also had a travel pack and bedroll slung over his shoulders.

“What, not even a word of greeting? Did you sleep well?” Kite asked. His voice was languid, but the dark circles under his eyes indicated that he, at least, had not enjoyed a restful night.

“I’m busy. Lots to do,” Snapper said, giving the boat a demonstrative tug. Sand and stones scraped as the boat slid forward a single inch. It would have gone further, but a boot was in the way. Snapper waved upward as though swatting a fly. “Shoo, shoo.”

“Come now. Is that any way to treat an old friend? Shooing me away like a common mongrel. For shame!” Kite kicked the prow of the boat, knocking it from Snapper’s hold. When Snapper lunged after it, Kite grabbed his arm. “Listen, old fellow. There’s no time to waste. The law is after us. Good news is, I’m here to help. Grab whatever you need for a journey. We need to leave.”

Snapper jerked his arm free and straightened. Even at Snapper’s fullest height, Kite stood at the same level as Snapper. This made it rather difficult to glare down at Kite, although Snapper still spent great effort to communicate his disapproval.

“You… you… what have you done to provoke the authorities?”

“Nothing major.” Kite smirked, but his boot carved a gash into the sand below.

“Never mind. Don’t say anything. I’ll hear it from them myself,” Snapper grumbled. He turned on his heel, leaving the boat halfway between his house and the launch point, and headed inland toward the village center. The fishing trip would have to wait until Snapper hat sorted out Kite’s mess with the local authorities.

Despite Kite’s diversionary efforts, which ranged from hurling creative insults to pointedly stepping on every living creature along the way, Snapper would not be swayed. Snapper marched to the village center to ask about what had happened overnight, and Kite trailed behind.

When they reached the village, Snapper’s tail disappeared just as they passed a row of shops. A rustling of branches sounded from above, and Snapper glanced back to see Kite pulling himself onto a low rooftop with all the grace of a rock squirrel. Snapper waited a moment to see if Kite would fall through the reed thatching, but the youth had already found secure footing among the heavier support beams.

Kite waved when he caught Snapper watching, and Snapper turned back to the road with a tired huff. Light footsteps hopped between the rooftops, tracking Snapper from above.

The streets were empty, even for an early morning, with not another person walking about. Shops that typically operated all day were either locked up or unstaffed. Snapper knocked on a few house doors, but there was no response. He wandered the village for almost fifteen minutes before he found a person—the baker’s apprentice, a teenager with bright eyes and a healthy respect for elders. The boy was watching the oven in his master’s absence, but he glanced up when Snapper spoke.

“Hello, Sard. Do you know where everyone is today?” Snapper smiled warmly.

Sard glanced up, fell off the log he had been sitting on, and scrambled upright again.

“They went to Uncle Chert’s,” Sard squeaked, voice cracking halfway through the words. “To—to see what you did.”

“Is that so? And what did I do?”

The boy’s face turned white. He took a step back, but the oven was behind him, blocking his escape. “They say... Chert was killed and his shop smashed up. They say you did it.” The boy’s bravado failed, and his voice jumped up an octave. “But I don’t know anything! That’s just what the others told me earlier.”

The terror in Sard’s voice wrenched at Snapper’s heart. Snapper had done nothing to warrant the boy’s fear, and he would never wish to harm Sard. However, lingering further was unlikely to correct the issue. Snapper offered a gentle, “Thanks,” and retreated from the bakery before Sard’s tremulous speech turned into open sobbing.

As Snapper walked down a street parallel to the one with Chert’s gemstone shop, the nearby clamor of voices confirmed Sard’s information: most of the villagers had indeed gathered there. He cut through a narrow alley between two buildings, taking a shortcut between the two streets. When Snapper was halfway through the alley, something dropped down to the path behind him. He turned, and Kite was there. The youth grabbed Snapper’s arm, hauling him back the way he had come.

“What are you doing? If you go to them, you will be arrested.” Kite’s voice was low and urgent.

“I need to see what happened.” Snapper eased his arm out of the youth’s grip, but he did not move toward the street again. Instead, he squared his shoulders and faced Kite. “If you have committed a crime in my name, I ought to know why I am accused.”

“You may look, but you must stay out of sight.” Kite waved a hand upward, and Snapper realized that the youth meant to return to the rooftops.

Curiosity won over pride. “Fine.”

Kite helped Snapper climb onto a shed on the opposite side of Chert’s street. The ascent from the shed to a proper building’s rooftop turned out to be less difficult than it had looked, and Kite showed Snapper how to place his feet on the wooden support beams to avoid falling through or making too much noise.

Peering over the apex of the roof, Snapper could see the front end of Chert’s shop and the crowd gathered there. The shop itself looked to be in a sorry state: the wooden window shutters were a mass of splinters and torn hinges, the door had been kicked in, and the painstakingly carved stone sign outside the door had been reduced to a pile of shattered rubble. Snapper craned his neck to see further inside the open doorway, but the only visible part of the interior was a white sheet covering a misshapen lump. A pair of motionless boots stuck out from beneath the sheet.

Four detectives with the crisp black-and-white colors of the militia were inspecting the damage to Chert’s shop. Snapper recognized three by face—locals, though he did not know their names, having only ever seen them in the distance. The last one was wholly unfamiliar, but the other villagers seemed to know him well; he was likely another local whom Snapper had not yet encountered.

As the detectives worked, the watching villagers offered suggestions and theories.

“Poor Chert,” a neighbor sighed. “Strangled by a fishing line—nasty way to go. It’s bad enough to find birds tangled in a net. Can’t imagine how it feels.”

A local shop owner spoke. “That foreign lad with the sword came to the tackle store yesterday, looking for a heavy-duty fishing line. I asked him what he needed it for, since we don’t normally see foreign customers. He acted all shifty and tried to dodge the question. Finally, he said it was for Snapper. At the time, I didn’t think much of it. Maybe the old fellow just didn’t want to walk all the way here for a bit of string.” The shop owner sighed gustily. “If I’d known that it would become a murder weapon, I would have refused the sale right then and there.”

Other villagers clustered around the distraught shop owner, giving him shoulder pats and murmured reassurances. Soon, another person spoke up.

“But why would a random out-of-towner just show up to murder a local? Chert only ever left the village to help with the deep-sea fishing. He hasn’t been to any inland settlements for at least thirty years. It makes no sense for him to have outside enemies. Clearly, someone around here paid to have Chert murdered.”

“That foreign lad was walking with Snapper yesterday. Maybe Snapper knows what happened?” The speaker was a chef at the restaurant that had purchased Snapper’s oysters the previous day.

“Oh, Snapper is involved all right. Snapper always did have a grudge with Chert,” a grey-haired woman said. “Yesterday, I was out giving the chickens their evening meal, and I saw Snapper walking with that lad. They both stopped in front of Chert’s shop, and Snapper pointed at the shop like he was giving instructions. Then, the lad went back and stared into Chert’s front window for a good five minutes. A killer-for-hire if I ever saw one!”

The crowd rumbled in agreement, praising the old woman’s keen observations.

Another voice joined the clamor. “Oh yes, remember when Snapper’s whole family disappeared under mysterious circumstances last season? And then Snapper had ‘memory loss’ and couldn’t say a thing about what happened to Minnow and the kids, even though he found his old house just fine.”

“Memory loss? How very convenient,” more voices echoed.

“Right! Even if we question Snapper, he’ll probably have ‘memory loss’ again and pretend he’s innocent.”

A low murmur of suspicion rippled through the crowd. One detective’s voice rose above, cold and authoritative.

“Be calm, friends, and do not fear. Whatever Snapper is up to, he won’t get away with it this time.”

After hearing his innocent name stained with unfounded accusations, Snapper could not listen to the villagers’ nonsense any further. He retreated from the rooftop, climbing back to ground level in the alley behind the building. The dirt road was solid and stable beneath Snapper’s feet, but he still felt unsteady. He slammed an open-palmed blow into a wooden column. Then, he closed his eyes, bracing himself against the building with that same arm. The distant tap of Kite’s steps followed him to ground level, but Snapper did not look up.

Snapper had forgiven, time and again, Chert’s irritating penchant for making smalltalk on the rare occasions when their paths crossed. Despite the headache-inducing nature of the gemstone shop, Snapper had appreciated Chert’s artistic skill from a distance. It had been a true tragedy for such a talented artisan to perish at the young age of forty-seven.

Why was it that the villagers—Snapper’s own neighbors—had begun to suspect the worst of him? Snapper had never held any grudge toward the other villagers before, but today, the truth was undeniable: he had been wronged. Ungrateful scum, the lot of them, to single him out to the authorities without even the slightest word on his behalf. Where was their sense of loyalty? How could they betray him with suggestive words and faulty deductions when he was not responsible for any part of Chert’s unfortunate demise?

“Old fellow?” a voice spoke near Snapper’s ear.

A hand landed on Snapper’s shoulder, jolting him out of his thoughts. He lashed out with a kick, which Kite dodged with ease, followed by a fist, which passed through only air. Suddenly, Kite was behind him. A tap on the upper back sent Snapper stumbling forward.

When Snapper turned around, there was a sword in Kite’s hand. The youth spun it with ease, tracing bright figure-eights in the air. Snapper watched the swirl, mesmerized by the gleam of light and shadow off the blade.

The blur of steel resolved into a whistle of wind and a feather-light pressure on Snapper’s clavicle. Cold light gleamed at the corner of his vision. Snapper froze, meeting the youth’s gaze with a careful blankness. Fear was the second thought that struck him. The first: nice sword skills.

“We need to leave. Now,” Kite said in a low voice.

Between being hunted by the militia, or being hunted by the militia and a dangerous rogue swordsman, Snapper found the first option more favorable. Kite had already demonstrated his sword skills and willingness to apply them, but the threat posed by the militia was less certain.

“Lead on,” Snapper agreed, and the blade lifted.

The thought of leaving home, perhaps permanently, had always unsettled Snapper, but today’s retreat from the village did not disturb him as much as he had anticipated. The village had never quite been home; Snapper’s home was what this coast had been fifty-some years in the past, and it had disappeared two months ago when he emerged from the sea to a changed world.

They flitted between the shadows of buildings and tall shrubs until the village shrank into the distance.