Thick low clouds, thin rain, no wind. River gray and green and solidly opaque, just past high tide. Ferries' long rolling swells are pocked with raindrops. A white band of fog has settled near the opposite shore; some faded buildings rise out of it, but most are hidden. A few random pinpoints of light burn through, including the red blink of an emergency vehicle where the fog is thickest and nothing else can be seen. Close to shore, a log floats by. Silvery brown, glistening, even the knobs where its branches grew are rounded and smooth. All bark, all roughness has been soaked away; this log's been in the river a long time. On its surface, a carved heart. In the heart, initials; but they're too eroded to read.