Spray from the approaching tidal wall rained down like cold gravel against the back of Julian’s neck.
Behind them, the Atlantic was eating the mud flats alive. Ahead, the yellow OSHA sign gleamed under the sickly green beam of the asylum searchlight.
“Look at the paint,” Julian said, leaning his shoulder against the howling wind as he pulled the Hastings triplet loupe from his pocket.
“We don’t have time for an art critique, Kid!” Mac shouted, his brass spanner clanking against the steel angle-iron of the barricade. “That water is chewing through the pilings!”
“Take three seconds, Mac,” Julian said, his voice flat. “Three seconds saves thirty years of regret.”
He brought the glass right up to the painted lettering on the steel plate.
The black letters looked official from ten feet away. Up close, under ten-times magnification, the truth came unglued.
The lowercase letter ‘a’ in CONDEMNED had a point-four drift in its kerning. The crossbar on the ‘t’ in PEDESTRIANS leaned two degrees to the left, exactly like the fraudulent municipal transfer orders Director Evelyn Cross used to churn out on her offset presses.
