“Get up, Merritt. It was a joke. God, you really will do anything for attention.”

(1,500 words)

Six months after the incident on the marble staircase.

The Providence maritime shipping facility was bathed in the sharp, clear light of an early autumn morning.

The deep blue Atlantic water glittered beyond the massive concrete piers, where three gigantic cargo vessels were docked, their steel hulls towering five stories above the loading cranes. The air smelled of salt water, diesel exhaust, and cold ocean wind.

I stood on the primary inspection deck of Pier 4, wearing steel-toed leather boots, a high-visibility yellow jacket, and a hard hat.

My right leg was completely healed. I walked with a strong, confident stride, carrying a digital clipboard and a heavy-duty industrial camera.

Beside me walked Thatcher Montgomery.

He was wearing his own safety gear, holding a set of logistics manifests for Montgomery & Croft. Over the past three months, after his family severed ties with my parents, Thatcher had reached out to my corporate office to handle their regional port claims directly. We had built a professional, deeply respectful partnership based on real competence and mutual trust.

"The structural inspection on Vessel 3 is complete, Merritt," Thatcher said, handing me a digital file tablet. "The hull damage from the storm off Cape Hatteras is confined to the secondary starboard hold. Your estimate of $1.2 million in cargo loss was dead-on."

I checked the numbers on my clipboard, nodding approvingly. "Good. I'll have the final claims report submitted to the European underwriters by three o'clock. That earns our firm a $75,000 primary adjuster fee."

Thatcher smiled, looking at me with genuine admiration. "You walk faster on that rebuilt knee than my senior inspectors do on two good legs."

"Physical therapy builds character," I grinned, adjusting my hard hat against the ocean breeze. "Or at least a very high tolerance for pain."

We walked together toward the pier administrative offices.

"How are things with your family, Merritt?" Thatcher asked gently as we stepped into the warm breakroom.

I poured two mugs of dark black coffee, handing one to him.

"My parents sold the East Greenwich house last month," I revealed calmly. "They moved into a two-bedroom rented townhouse in Cranston. Dad is working as a regional manager for another dry-cleaning chain... earning a fraction of what he used to make."

"And Sloan?"

"She's working as a receptionist at a dental clinic in Boston," I said. "Living with two roommates in a small apartment. She pays fifty percent of her paycheck toward the monthly settlement installment."

Thatcher took a slow sip of his coffee, looking out the window at the towering cargo ships. "Do you ever speak to them?"

"No," I replied smoothly. "The permanent protection order remains in full legal effect. But I don't carry any anger toward them anymore, Thatcher. Anger takes energy. And I need all my energy for my work."