The fisher recognized Drake before he reached the boat.
“Leave the coat.”
He looked down at it. “There’s nothing wrong with the coat.”
“Half the mooring knows it. The other half can read your name on their faces.”
Drake considered the unremarkable fishing boat, the cordon’s water watch, and his own ship under attentive observation farther along the licensed berth.
He left the coat in the shed.
The replacement smelled faintly of nets and belonged to a man with shorter arms. Its owner watched Drake examine the cuffs.
“It doesn’t announce a salvage claim,” she said. “Already an improvement.”
