“Good first day?”
I think about Ana and her careful English, about the argument across the fire, about the way the platform swayed underfoot. “Yeah. You?”
“Yeah.” A pause. “Thanks for thinking of me.”
“You’re the one who agreed to it,” I point out.
“You’re the one who asked.”
The words sit between us, separated by canvas and a few feet of space. They don’t weigh anything. I still feel them.
“Goodnight, Kieran,” I say finally.
“Goodnight.”
His voice settles into the dark, steel blue and steady, violet soft at the edges. Present without pressing. Here because I asked him to be.
I close my eyes and let the Delta’s rhythm pull me under.
Tomorrow, we start the work.
Tonight, I let myself believe this might actually be okay.
42
FINDING RHYTHM (WREN)
By the third week, the Delta has rules I recognize.
Pale light filters through the canvas before the sun clears the reeds. The river sounds different in the hour before dawn—muted, expectant. I dress quietly, braid my hair tight, step out into air that still holds a trace of cool.
Kieran is already at the fire pit, coaxing last night’s embers back to life. He glances up when I approach and nods. No words yet. He pours hot water over coffee. I set out bowls and bread. The routine has settled into something easy, almost domestic.
The kids emerge in stages—bleary, rumpled, speaking in sleep-soft Romanian. Ana is first, as always, field journal tucked under her arm. The boys from the football debate tumble out together, shoving each other with the careless violence of teenage affection.
“Morning,” Kieran says in English, handing over cups of tea and instant coffee. They accept with grunts that might be gratitude.
Mihai arrives last, scanning the group with the practiced eye of someone who counts heads without meaning to.
“Good,” he says. “Everyone breathing.”
A ripple of laughter.
“Today we map the northern tributaries. Fishing window before lunch.” He gestures toward the water. “Pods as assigned. Two skiffs. Stay within sight of each other. Meet back here by three. Bring dinner if you can.”
Kieran and I exchange a look. I nod once.
The kids scatter toward their gear, already arguing about who gets which rod.
The two skiffsslide off the dock minutes apart, engines idling low. Kieran takes his pod—Stefan and Andrei up front, Cristian quiet at the stern, two others wedged between coolers and nets. I follow with mine, Ana beside me, Raluca scanning the water like she’s reading a map only she can see.
We move in parallel through the channel, never more than a few boat-lengths apart. Sometimes he pulls ahead. Sometimes I do. The water decides.
The kids shout observations back and forth about depth, current, shadows under the reeds. English when they remember. Romanian when they don’t.
Kieran stands steady at the tiller, posture relaxed, making constant micro-adjustments. When Stefan calls out a question about depth versus current, Kieran answers without raising his voice.
“Current matters more. Fish follow food. Food follows current.”
