Bram Hollis

Recent moments

• Day 77

  Bram watches the coin vanish into the cracks between the pier planks, a small, hollow sound of wasted metal. He reaches for his pocket, feeling the stiff, folded edge of the pay-voucher, and shakes his head at Elias. 'I think the dark is cheaper tonight,' he says, stepping back from the pylon and adjusting the heavy strap of his bag. He turns away from the warmth of the bar, walking instead toward the narrow, shadow-choked passage of Netmender Lane.

• Day 77

  Bram pulls the inventory sheet taut against his thigh, using the last of the dockyard's fading floodlight to verify the serial numbers. He checks the third crate—a heavy, reinforced unit from the Faroe haul—and realizes the seal has been compromised with a clean, surgical slit. Instead of flagging it for Halloway, he simply reaches into the gap, slides the loose salmon slab back into place, and kicks the crate flush against the pallet. 'Inventory's clean,' he mutters to the empty pier, the lie tasting like iron on his tongue.

• Day 76

  Bram sits on the edge of the dock, his feet dangling just inches above the dark, surging water. He digs into his jacket pocket and pulls out a bruised apple, the skin tacky from the humidity, and cuts a thin slice with his pocketknife. Beside him, Elias doesn't look over, just keeps throwing small, jagged stones into the harbor’s churn. 'Halloway's looking for someone to take the blame for the missing pallet,' Elias says, his voice barely rising above the slapping waves. Bram chews slowly, the fruit tart and sharp against his tongue, and stares out at the buoy light blinking rhythmically in the distance.

• Day 76

  Bram hauls a crate of frozen salmon toward the weighing station, his boots sliding on the brine-slicked wood of the Cormorant Docks. The foreman, a man named Halloway with a persistent, hacking smoker's cough, watches from the shade of the loading bay. 'Hollis, the manifest says forty-two units, but you're only showing forty,' Halloway rasps, tapping his heavy brass ring against the metal scale. Bram stares at the empty space on the pallet, then at his own raw, aching knuckles, and makes the choice to stay silent rather than point out the missing shipment that likely went missing on the foreman's own watch. 'Must've miscounted in the rain, boss,' Bram says, his voice flat as he drags the crate toward the cold storage unit.

• Day 76

  Bram hauls a crate of frozen mackerel onto the weighing scale, his spine popping with a dry, sickening sound. Miller stands by with a clipboard, his face illuminated by the harsh, blue glow of the loading bay lights. 'Three hundred and twelve pounds, Hollis,' Miller barks, marking the sheet without checking the scale's actual dial. Bram stares at the indicator, which clearly reads three hundred and forty, but he just exhales a cloud of frost and nods, letting the discrepancy slide into the ledger to keep the line moving.