The Boblo dock stabs into the Detroit River like a skeleton that refuses to sink.Julian drives us himself, his knuckles blanched white on the steering wheel, his jaw locked so tight I can hear his teeth grinding. I don't fill the car with words. The silence is a held breath. The old amusement park ferry landing materializes through the December haze, its pilings black and rotten, its wooden planks bowing into the gray chop. The smell of creosote and dead fish rolls off the water."She's here," Julian says. His voice is sand. "I can feel her."We park on the gravel shoulder and move toward the dock. The wind off the river slices through my coat, damp and bitter, laced with the mineral bite of ice. The sky hangs low and heavy, the color of old pewter. The Penobscot Building throbs red in the distance, a heartbeat counting down.A woman stands at the end of the dock, her spine to us, her dark coat snapping in the wind. She doesn't rotate when our footsteps groan on the decaying wood."S
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