The heat in Ocean Springs did not break, not even after midnight. It pressed thick and damp against the Ham and Ingles shipyards, wrapping the hulls and the men who worked them in a kind of sticky haze. The air tasted of salt and diesel, and the clang of metal on metal carried across the water, echoing into the marshes where mosquitoes and secrets bred in equal numbers.
On the edge of the yard, under a sodium lamp buzzing with moths, stood Rachel Delacroix. She was small, with sun-browned arms and hair pulled back in a knot. Her hi-vis vest was faded, oil-stained, and she wore it like armour. The other men-older, some with the drawl of this coast, others with Spanish or Vietnamese lilt-respected her or at least kept their distance. Rachel had earned her place at the yard, working twice as hard for half the recognition. Tonight, she was finishing a double shift.
It was the last Thursday of August, and the air promised storms. A radio on a bench played the blues-Buddy Guy, slow and mournful-while the night foreman, Big Jimmy, checked his clipboard. "You heading out soon, Rach?" he called, voice rough as oyster shells. She nodded, wiped sweat from her brow, and finished tightening the last bolt on the bulkhead.
Rachel's world was the shipyard-her father had worked here before the cancer, her brother had left for Texas, and her mother worked days at the bait shop. She knew every whistle and curse, every shortcut through the stacks of steel. The yard was as much home as anywhere, and she walked its lanes with the easy assurance of someone who belonged.
But lately, things had shifted. There was tension in the air-whispers about layoffs, a big contract gone sideways, petty thefts from the tool cribs. And around Rachel, the whispers followed closer: talk of a new boyfriend, money troubles, and something about a fight in the parking lot a few nights before. She kept her head down, but even the best welders couldn't keep sparks from flying forever.
At 12:15, Rachel clocked out. She paused by the shed to grab her rucksack, then headed to the breakroom, where the night crew nursed their thermoses and grumbled about the humidity. Someone had left a king cake on the counter, already half eaten, purple sugar melting in the heat. Rachel poured herself a coffee, black and bitter, and sat for a moment beside Luis, who was mending a pair of gloves.
"You walkin' home?" he asked, his eyes flicking to the window, where thunderheads gathered on the horizon.
"Yeah. Gotta clear my head before I sleep," Rachel replied, forcing a smile.
Luis hesitated, then lowered his voice. "You be careful. Folks say things been weird lately. That fight the other night-Big Jimmy says it's nothing, but..." He trailed off.
Rachel shrugged. "It's Ocean Springs, Luis. Folks always got something to say."
She finished her coffee and slung her bag over her shoulder. The walk home wasn't far-just across the bay bridge, past the old bait shop, then a mile down DeLisle Street to the little shotgun house with the blue door. She preferred walking; it gave her time to think, to shake off the clang and grease of the yard.
The night was alive with the sounds of the coast-tree frogs, the distant rumble of an outboard engine, and the steady thrum of traffic on the bridge. She kept to the sidewalk, eyes down, her boots splashing through a puddle left by yesterday's rain.
