We’d ordered them to stay inside until we could drive the water devils back, but a few stubborn folks meandered the creaking docks. A fat earth mare the color of dried earwax slouched herself in a rocking chair, torturing it with her weight every time she shifted. She had a slab forehead that squashed the rest of her face into thin, mean lines. An oil lamp hung above her head, creating a gross halo of gnats and moths. Laying in her lap beyond her potbelly was a crude, rusted machete. Grit raised a hoof to call up to her.