Gene Pull stepped off the ferry with a crumpled napkin in his fist and nothing else of value. The napkin held his dream: a beachside tavern, sketched in ink the night of his first voyage through Underbog. He had carried that sketch for years. Now he stood on the shore in his loud flowered shirt and worn deck shoes, ready to build it. He checked his pockets for coin. They were empty. He checked again, slower, as if the sea might have hidden a coin in the lining. Nothing. A lumber seller worked a stack of planks nearby. Gene walked over and pointed at the smallest board. "How much for one?" The seller named a price. Gene offered his newsboy hat instead. The seller laughed and waved him off. Gene stood there, holding a dream he could not start. One plank. He could not even buy one plank. "You're squeezing that napkin like it owes you money," a voice said. She stood by a rundown shack bar, the one with the crusty green pool out front. A blond woman in a bright bikini, arms crossed, watching him. She ran the place; a chalkboard behind her listed drinks and gambling odds. Gene had met Marina Summers once before, over a bamboo gaming table and too many bad bets. She had cleaned him out and still bought him breakfast. He liked her for that. "It's not money," Gene said. "It's a tavern. I just need wood to start it." Marina took the napkin and studied the sketch. She did not laugh. She tapped the drawn bar, then the drawn stools. "People drink here because there's nowhere better," she said. "You're drawing somewhere better." "I can't buy a single plank," Gene admitted. Marina leaned against her shack and thought. Behind her, a customer shook a cup of dice. "I've got coin," she said. "Enough to buy your wood and then some. But I don't hand out gifts." She held up the napkin. "Half. I put up the money. You build it, you run it, and the place is ours together." Gene stared at her. The dream was his alone for years. Splitting it stung. But half a tavern beat a sketch on a napkin forever. "Half," he said, and stuck out his hand. Marina shook it hard. Then she went inside and came back with a small pouch. She pressed it into his palm. It was heavy. Gene opened it and the coins inside shifted with a wet, mossy squirm. One of them blinked. A grimy dollar, furred with green growth, glared up at him with a tiny scowling face. "That's the local coin," Marina said, grinning. "Takes getting used to." Gene closed the pouch. He had his partner. He had his money. Now he had to find a lumber seller who would take squirming, mold-covered dollars, and build a tavern on a muddy shore that had never wanted one.