The wooden walls still held the dampness left by the rising tide overnight. Wastewater pooled in low spots, gradually evaporating beneath the rising sun.
Although this was also part of the Dock District, the ground was noticeably higher than in the low-lying shantytowns right against the sea, and closer to the edge of the Governor's Special District.
The buildings here were therefore considerably more respectable. Shacks had all but disappeared, and most buildings along the street were two-story wooden houses. Though hardly arranged in neat rows, they had ample space between them.
Even the dirt road had been leveled and packed firm, with shallow, straight drainage channels dug along either side. Gravel lined their bottoms to help rainwater and seawater drain away quickly.
An unremarkable shop stood on a street corner. Its frontage was narrow, its eaves low. Two wooden boards, weathered gray by wind and rain, were nailed to either side of the doorframe. Faint needle-and-thread designs and a crooked line of lettering were carved into them, just legible enough to identify it as a tailor's shop.
The door panels were shut, and no light shone through the windows. An overturned wooden bucket sat on the steps outside, a thin layer of moss coating its bottom.
It was still early, and the tailor's shop had yet to open. Renato leaned against a nearby wooden wall, his back against the rough planks, chatting idly with a vendor who sold sundries.
The vendor was a short, stocky man in his fifties, missing half his left ear. A conspicuous knife scar ran from the corner of his mouth almost all the way across his chin. It was easy to imagine how grievous the wound must once have been.
A handcart stood before him, bearing an open wooden box filled with shell buttons,