Morning dawns gunwale gray and wet in Oyster City. The hur­ri­cane, first a roar in the night, then a howl, now a whisper of sea spray over the coast, barrels farther inland. Cur­tains of rain hang in the silence between gusts. The city stirs, ready to probe its wounds.

          On the edge of town, Billy heaves three sets of waders into the bed of his pickup. His son Tyler watches him through the rear wind­shield. A string bean of ten with his momma’s eyes and his granddad’s sea legs. His mouth is tight with worry. On the bench seat beside Tyler, Joe aims his gaze over the dash, but Billy knows the look his father wears. It’s come on slowly over the years, first during the water wars with the cities upstream, then with the oil spill, when every oys­ter­man took to the bay to harvest before the slick could kill their beds. Picked the bottom clean. With time, the oysters dwin­dled. Then, the oys­ter­men. Now this.

          Billy climbs in and starts the truck. The going is slow. He winds around downed trees and debris lathed from shops and homes. Soon, the city will be a sym­pho­ny of chain­saws. Now, only his V8 grum­bles through the post-storm quiet.

          As he drives, Billy thinks about the day Joe handed him his first set of oyster tongs, three times his height, capped with metal rakes. Billy strug­gled to heft them into the water. Nearly tumbled in. Joe helped him pinch the tongs, a giant pair of chop­sticks, until they snagged on the rough shell below. Togeth­er they hauled their catch onto the culling tray. Joe showed him with a cal­loused palm how to measure the weight of a good meal. Tossed back the rest.

          Hauling oysters made for long, hot days, and Billy would be sore long after. But in the evening, when the sun dipped into the gulf beyond the bridge, his Uncle Holton would ease his boat next to theirs and toss over cold cans of Bud. Crisp crack of alu­minum. Rush of fizz. The liquid spilled onto the deck, stick­ied toes. Billy sipped foam from Joe’s can, nose wrin­kling at the hops. They bobbed on the rising tide until his uncle put­tered off for a burger onshore.

          Holton left oys­ter­ing not long after the spill. Found his first job on land, where the tide of thirsty locals was more reli­able than the river. Billy turned to oyster farming. He’d restore the beds his great-grandad made when the bay was full of tongers’ boats. Or that had been the hope.

          Billy drives on. In town, the pulse of the single street­light is dead, the streets under water. He parks near the sand-bagged liquor store where the tide has pulled back, leaving blan­kets of seaweed and mud. The air smells sour with oil.

          Eight feet of surge, Billy thinks. Enough to drown a liveli­hood. A legacy. Still, they shrug into their waders and slosh south toward the market. Mud sucks at Billy’s feet. Twice Tyler stum­bles in his too-large waders. The tide tugs them onward.

          Their seafood market sits like a half-rotted fish in the surge: roof panels stripped, beams exposed. Rain pours in the open wounds, pebbles Billy as he stares. Inside: giant coolers, ice makers, stain­less steel tables upended. Chunks of drywall float with metal trays and plastic crates. Steel garage doors, crum­pled like paper, begin to rust in the brack­ish tide.

          The math hurts. His wife’s car in the shop, their mort­gage, Joe’s meds. And now, a ruin. Billy turns away. Scrubs hard at his jaw. Then he clears the sting from his throat and says, I’m gonna check the seeds.

          The dock out back is half-pitched into the brown froth of the river. Billy picks his way over the bobbing timber until he finds the piling where his cages are tied. He draws one in, hand over hand, until the cage emerges. Water spills from its pores. Billy holds his breath and opens the cage door. Inside: a mound of shells, each no bigger than a fin­ger­nail. He scoops out a handful, cold and rough in his palm, and waits for a sign of life. When the mottled shells clamp shut, he exhales.

          They make it? Joe asks. He stands onshore with Tyler. His skin is toil- creased and slick with rainwater.

          They made it, Billy says.

          He replaces the oyster seeds and lowers the cage again. He back­tracks to the river­bank, where Tyler waits, eyes wide. Look, he says.

          Billy follows his son’s finger to the bay. He spots move­ment beneath the waves. Shrimp. Thou­sands of them. Pinkish bodies rip­pling, as they swim upstream.

          What’re they doing? Tyler asks.

          They can’t breathe, Joe says, and it takes Billy a moment to understand—the mud onshore, the rich river bottom turned over by the surge, the water brown and thick.

          They watch the shrimp strug­gle, search­ing for breath. The bay is wind- churned and flowing. Joe closes his eyes. Billy reaches for Tyler’s shoul­der. He breathes in the sweet sting of salt.