Evening on White Wax Island was shrouded in a thin mist that smelled of sawdust. The sawmills had already stopped work, and shops along the commercial street were gradually putting up their shutters. Only the red-and-white fan flag at the street corner still unfurled lazily in the sea breeze.
There were six patrolmen stationed on the island: two on duty at the docks and four patrolling the commercial street. Their schedule matched Orange Town's. The rule of resting at sunset had held for three peaceful years in the East Blue, and no one believed today would be any different from yesterday.
At the end of the dock walkway, an older porter was the first to spot the sailing ship approaching over the water.
He looped the rope in his hands around a mooring post, shaded his eyes with one hand, and took a look. Then he turned and called to the young man on duty, "The Sweet Orange. It's almost half a day late."
"Late by that much?"
The patrolman on duty was named Barry. Nineteen years old, he had been transferred from the Orange Town training hall to White Wax Island less than two months ago.
He leaned out from the duty room window and looked. It really was the Sweet Orange he knew. The hull shape, size, and draft were all correct.
The sea wind had been strong during the day. Maybe that had delayed it.
He flipped the register to today's page, checked off the Sweet Orange's name, and leaned back in his chair.
"A fruit ship. Familiar faces. Just toss the mooring rope yourselves," Barry said. He did not look a second time.
The Sweet Orange slowly pulled alongside White Wax Island's dock.
When the hull pressed against the walkway, it let out a dull thud,