Marcus’s face broke into a smile.
Another small victory.
Atlas lowered his nose to the bottom of the gate and sniffed once.
Marcus held his breath.
Rowan didn’t move. Didn’t praise. Didn’t push.
Atlas sniffed again, then looked up at Marcus.
It was only a second. Barely anything at all.
But Marcus felt it all the way through him.
‘That’s progress,’ he said softly.
Rowan’s gaze met his.
This time, he didn’t look away.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It is.’
And Marcus had the unsettling feeling they were no longer only talking about Atlas.
Act 2 – Chapter seven
Marcus had walked past Old Po’s hardware shop at least a hundred times since moving to Seagull Bay, but this was the first time he had actually stepped inside.
The bell above the door gave a tired little jangle as he entered, and he stopped just beyond the threshold, momentarily overwhelmed.
It was like walking into an Aladdin’s cave, built by someone who had never thrown anything away.
Shelves bowed beneath tins of paint, boxes of screws, rolls of wallpaper, coils of rope, padlocks, brushes, dust sheets, hinges, sandpaper, gardening gloves, fishing line, buckets, mops, batteries, light bulbs and at least three things Marcus could not identify and was not entirely sure anyone else could either.
The smell hit him next: metal, timber, dust, old paper bags, paraffin, and something faintly lemony that might have been polish or might have been a cleaning product from 1974.
Marcus breathed it in and smiled despite himself.
This was exactly the sort of shop Seagull Bay ought to have. Useful. Chaotic. Slightly stubborn. Full of things you did not know you needed until the moment you saw them.
Unfortunately, he knew exactly what he needed, and that was the problem.
His list was folded in his pocket, already creased from how many times he had checked it.
Cable ties.
Marker paint.
Warning signs.
Sandbags.
Bunting hooks.
Rope.
Clipboards.
