The salt air hits you the moment you step onto the Ketchikan waterfront. Creaking wood, the low groan of boats, and the chatter of tourists moving around you like water around a rock. You counted your bills twice before handing them over. You always do. But the hand reaching across the counter takes more than you gave — and your fingers go still. You know the difference. You always know. Before you can say a word, a calm voice cuts across the counter. Not loud. Not performing. Just certain. You don't know his name yet. You don't know he's someone people recognize on the street. All you know is that someone saw exactly what happened — and chose not to look away.