Page 35 of Baby, It's Cod Outside
His hand twitches again, aching to reach across the seat, to brush his thumb on the corner of that smile and tell Ben how much he wants to keep that look on his face safe. Keep it his.
But before the thought can cross all the way into motion, the MarineSelect truck rumbles to life.
He straightens. “Showtime.”
They exchange a glance as the truck pulls out of the lot. Ben rolls the Jeep slowly into motion, slipping into place a few car lengths back.
“Cut your lights.”
“Sorry.” Ben flicks off the headlights without looking away from the road. His jaw is tight, hands tense at ten and two, eyes pinned on the truck ahead.
Silver Shoals slips away behind them, replaced by the dark, narrowing roads that snake toward the coast. Streetlights thin out. Shadows take over. The headlights of the truck flicker between trees.
“This stuff they’re hauling, it’s all fish byproduct?”
“Mostly,” Ben says. “But… also drums from the maintenance department. Machinery oil, hydraulic fluid, that kind of stuff.”
That tracks. Jackson thinks of the sheen he saw in the video, the rainbow gleam that had set all this in motion.
Suddenly, the truck slows and takes a sharp, jerking turn down an access road marked by a faded sign:USE AT OWN RISK. Thank God they aren’t in Jackson’s Corolla. Ben follows at a crawl; up ahead, the truck veers onto a snowy, unused path sloping toward the coastline.
“We go the rest of the way on foot. Pull off here.”
Ben edges the Jeep behind a thicket and kills the engine. Jackson is already unbuckling.
“Stick close.”
Jackson keeps low, motioning for Ben to stay behind him as he edges toward the bluff. The ocean’s louder here, black water under a dark sky, wind snapping in sharp bursts. He drops behind a rocky outcrop twenty feet from where the truck is parked.
Two men wrestle drums from the back, rolling them toward the edge. Jackson pulls out his phone.Got you.
The first barrel sloshes and tips. Thick liquid hits the water, sliding out in a dark, oily iridescence. Easy to see in person, but the camera struggles to catch it at this distance, in this light. Jackson moves closer, adjusting the angle, trying to sharpen the shot.
Then behind him, a choked sound cuts through the dark.
A sob.Ben.
Jackson swings around.
Ben is crumpled near the rock line, arms wrapped tight around himself, eyes wide and horrified, locked on the drums in the surf. His chest stutters like it’s forgotten how to pull air.
Jackson knows that look, that sound. Knows exactly what happens next. Story, evidence, journalistic impartiality, all of it takes a backseat in an instant.
He slips back to Ben, fast but careful, crouching low in front of the trembling shape of him. “Hey, hey. Easy.” Don’t overwhelm. Don’t vanish. Don’t minimize. Jackson keeps his voice calm and firm. “Stay with me, okay?” He reaches for one of the grounding exercises. “Tell me five things you can see.”
Ben shudders, blinking fast. His voice is high and cracking. “Our waste, Jackson. Our waste. They’re dumping it, it’s in the water, it’s already in the water…”
“No. Not that. Just here. Just right here.”
Ben’s gaze jerks around, wild and unfocused. “Um. Snow. Rocks. The trees. The—the?—”
Jackson slides his hand to the back of Ben’s neck. Ben pushes into the touch, starving for it. His breath is still stuttering but coming in just a little easier now, a little more under control. His eyes find Jackson’s face.
“Your scarf,” Ben says finally, voice shaking. “The snow on your boot.”
Jackson pulls him in a little closer. “Perfect,” he murmurs, meaning it. “Now four things you can hear.”
“The ocean. The wind. Your voice. Your jacket… rustling.”
