The brass compass on Elena's desk held steady, its needle trembling with the same restless energy that kept her awake each night. Outside her office, the town of Port Vesper conducted its slow business: lobster boats grinding against the harbor pilings, the diesel cough of delivery trucks, the salt wind carrying the mineral tang of low tide. Inside, the fluorescent tubes hummed at a frequency she had long ago stopped hearing, and her brother's handwriting filled the margins of a water-stained logbook.
Elena turned another page. The paper crinkled beneath her fingertips, the edges gone soft from seawater and time. Seven months had passed since Mateo vanished, and still she could not bring herself to place his belongings in storage. His diving equipment remained where he had left it, hanging on hooks by her front door like the she'd skin of some creature she could not name.
She had assumed the logbook would be the final wound. Instead, it became something stranger.
Mateo's final entry was dated March 14th, six days before his boat was found drifting near Widow's Reef with its engine still idling and his weight belt missing. He had written in the shorthand they developed as children, a system of symbols and compressed Spanish that only the two of them could read. The coordinates were familiar: a spot less than a mile from the channel markers, in water shallow enough for recreational diving.
The sketch occupied the lower half of the page. Elena studied it for the third time that morning, her coffee cooling at her elbow. A bell shape, unmistakable in its outline. Not the tapered profile of a church bell or the flared mouth of a ship's bell, but something rounder, more organic, like a fruit that had been allowed to swell past ripeness into something almost obscene. Mateo had shaded the surface with quick, agitated strokes, indicating texture that suggested pitting, corrosion, or perhaps barnacle growth.
The entry read: Object approximately 4 ft diameter. Bronze or copper alloy based on visible oxidation. Articulated base, possible mechanism within. Retrieval attempted 1430 hours. Conditions deteriorating. Surface to assess equipment, return at slack tide.
She had read it enough times that the words had begun to lose their meaning, reassembling themselves into noise. What remained, what kept drawing her back, was the sketch. She knew the shape. Somewhere in her brother's other notebooks, in the boxes she had not yet opened, there was a precedent.
Elena rose from the desk and crossed to the filing cabinet against the far wall. The drawer stuck, as it always did, and she pulled harder, feeling the cold of the handle through her fingers. Mateo's preliminary research for the maritime history project he had been consulting on sat in a manila folder, wedged between tax documents and correspondence from the university.
She carried the folder back to the desk and spread its contents. The first page was a surveyor's map from 1847, showing the original layout of the town before the great expansion of the wharves. The second was a newspaper clipping from the Port Vesper Gazette, dated October 1958, describing the recovery of artifacts from a wreck site. The third was what she sought.
The drawing had been executed in fountain pen, the ink gone brown with age, on a sheet of heavy cream-colored paper. Someone had pressed very hard, creating furrows in the paper that Elena could feel with her thumb. The shape was identical to Mateo's sketch. Not similar. Identical. The same rounded profile, the same suggested pitting, the same unsettling sense of organic geometry.
A notation in the corner, in handwriting she did not recognize: Recovered from the Bell Wreck, 1881. Now in the keeping of A. Pendergast. Do not lift without permission.
Elena set down the drawing and reached for her phone. She had not spoken to Arthur Pendergast in nearly three years, not since the memorial for a man whose name she did not want to think about. Their last conversation had ended with him asking her to take something, and her refusing, and the silence that followed had stretched until it calcified.
She typed the number from memory. The line rang four times.
"Arthur Pendergast." His voice carried the particular roughness of age combined with years of tobacco, though she had never seen him smoke. He sounded unsurprised.
"Mr. Pendergast. This is Elena Vasquez."
A pause. She heard the rustle of paper, the creak of what she imagined to be a leather chair in a book-lined room. "Doctor Vasquez. I wondered when you would call."
"You knew I would call."
"I suspected. Your brother's disappearance made the papers, and there were questions asked at the time that never received answers. I assumed you would eventually arrive at certain doors."
Elena did not rise to the implied criticism. "I have his dive log. The last entry describes a bell-shaped object near Widow's Reef. I found a sketch in his research materials that matches a drawing in your collection, dated 1881."
Another pause, longer this time. When he spoke again, the cadence had changed, as though he were choosing each word with particular care. "Where did you find that drawing?"
"In his files. The notation says it was recovered from the Bell Wreck and placed in your keeping."
"The Bell Wreck is not what most people believe it to be. And the drawing should not have left this house."
"I have it here, Mr. Pendergast. Along with my brother's equipment, which the police never recovered, and his boat, which they did. I am trying to understand what happened to him."
Silence. Then: "Come to the shop this evening. After seven. I will show you what I showed your brother, and perhaps you will understand why I advised him to leave it where it lay."
The line disconnected. Elena set the phone down and looked at the two drawings side by side on her desk. The shapes matched. The shading, the suggested texture, the sense of weight at the base, the curvature that refused to resolve into anything recognizable, all of it aligned.
She thought about her refusal, three years ago. About the object Arthur had offered her, wrapped in cloth, and the way her hands had refused to take it. About what might have happened if she had said yes instead of no.
Mateo had said yes.
Elena gathered the drawings and placed them in her satchel, along with the logbook. She would need to be methodical. She would need to be careful. The rust bell that had appeared on her porch two weeks after her brother's disappearance, identical in shape and proportion to the sketches, sat in her closet at home in a box she had not opened since the day she placed it there.
She had assumed it was a coincidence, a cruel one, the kind of gesture a grieving community might make toward the family of the lost. Now she wondered if someone had been telling her where to look, and she had failed to understand the message.
Elena turned off the overheads and left her office, locking the door behind her. The afternoon light fell in long bars across the hallway floor, and somewhere in the building, a door closed with a sound like a held breath finally released.
She had six hours before her appointment with Arthur Pendergast. She intended to use them.
The drive to the harbor took nineteen minutes through streets that narrowed as the town compressed itself against the waterline. Elena kept her windows cracked against the salt smell that thickened the air, a briny tang that made her think of decay and time and the slow patient work of dissolution. She had not been down to the waterfront since her second week in town, when she had needed to identify a body pulled from a fishing net, and the memory of that visit sat in her chest like a stone she could not cough loose.
Owen Ketch's shop occupied a weather-beaten building at the end of Commercial Wharf, wedged between a chandlery that had not updated its inventory since the Clinton administration and a storage facility whose owner had died intestate and whose contents therefore belonged to everyone and no one. A sign over the roll-up door read KETCH MARINE in letters that were once white and had faded to the color of old bone. Beneath that, in smaller script, a second line: SALVAGE AND RECOVERY BY APPOINTMENT.
She found him in the second bay, half-buried in the open engine compartment of a Boston Whaler that had seen better decades. He did not look up when she entered, though the overhead door had announced her arrival with a shriek of corroded track. He simply continued working, one hand on a wrench, the other guiding a length of rubber hose into the cavity of the motor, his face illuminated by a trouble light clipped to the hoist above.
"Mr. Ketch," Elena said, and stopped three paces from the boat, near enough that she could smell the mixture of petroleum and old salt that clung to his canvas jacket.
"Owen." He did not look up. "Nobody calls me mister unless they're selling something or asking for something I don't want to give. Which is it for you, Doc?"
She noted the title. Word traveled in a town this size, faster than the ferry, slower than the undertaker. "I'm not selling anything."
"Good. Then you're asking." He withdrew his hands from the engine and wiped them on a rag that had once been blue and was now the color of a bruise. "That's usually worse."
"I need to talk to you about 1998."
The rag stopped moving. For three heartbeats, Owen Ketch was entirely still, a statue of weathered leather and gray bristle, and then he turned to face her with the slow deliberation of a man who had learned that sudden movements cost lives underwater. His eyes were the color of shallow water over sand, and they held the flat assessment of someone who had seen things he did not care to describe.
"You're the Vasquez girl," he said. It was not a question. "The one who moved into the old Hadley place."
"The one whose brother disappeared in '98. Yes."
He considered this, then nodded once, as if confirming something to himself. "He was a good kid. Better diver than me, and I don't say that about many people. Smarter, too. Knew when to get out of the water. Knew when not to go in." He paused. "Should've stayed out that day."
Elena reached into her satchel and withdrew the smaller of the two drawings, holding it up so that the overhead light caught the paper. "Did you see anything like this down there? Anything at all?"
Owen did not take the drawing from her. He leaned forward, squinting, and his face underwent a transformation so subtle that only someone trained to read the microexpressions of the dying would have caught it. The lines around his mouth tightened. The tendons in his neck drew taut. For an instant, the flat assessment in his eyes gave way to something older and colder, the kind of recognition that precedes either violence or retreat.
Then it was gone, and he was simply a tired man in a tired shop, looking at a piece of paper he did not wish to see.
"Where'd you get that?"
"A diver brought it up from a wreck site yesterday. The thing it depicts was down there with him, holding him down."
"Dead?" Owen's voice held no inflection.
"No. Alive, apparently. But not in any way I'm prepared to define."
Owen turned away from her and walked to a workbench along the wall, where he busied himself with a coil of nylon line that did not need coiling. His back was a wall of canvas and muscle memory. "I don't talk about '98."
"I understand that. I'm asking anyway."
"Most people who say they understand don't." He did not turn around. "You want to know what happened, read the report. It says equipment failure. It says currents. It says we went down after a manifest that turned out to be wrong, and by the time we figured out we were in the wrong place, two of my friends were dead and your brother was gone."
"The report also says you were the last person to see Marco alive."
He turned then, and she saw that the flatness had returned, but something else had joined it, a kind of exhaustion that belonged to a man who had been running from the same memory for twenty-five years. "I was the last person to see a lot of people alive, Doc. It's what happens when you're the one left to come up."
"What did you see, Owen?"
A long silence stretched between them, filled with the sound of halyards clinking against masts in the harbor and the distant complaint of a gull. Owen's hands found the coil of line again, and he resumed the unnecessary work, the rope passing through his fingers in a rhythm that suggested he was counting something other than fathoms.
"We weren't alone down there," he said finally. "We thought we were. The visibility was maybe forty feet, and we were working a debris field from a coastal trader that went down in 1893, and everything was normal. Sand, ballast, broken planking, the usual. Then Bart Cormier, he was my best friend, he taps his regulator. I look over. He's pointing at something, out beyond the edge of the visibility, maybe sixty feet down. A shape. I couldn't make it out. Just a shape, dark against the sand, and it was moving."
Elena's hand tightened on the drawing. "Moving how?"
"Wrong. Not like a fish, not like a diver. Like something that had been still for a long time and had decided to remember how." He shook his head, the memory sitting on him like a physical weight. "Bart went toward it. Tommy Jessup followed, because Tommy always followed Bart into things he shouldn't have. I stayed with the lift bags, because somebody had to. I watched their bubbles for maybe three minutes, and then the bubbles stopped."
He paused, and she saw his throat work around something he did not want to say. "Both of them. Same instant. Like someone had turned off a tap."
"And Marco?"
Owen's face closed like a door swinging shut. "Marco was on the boat. He was tending lines, topside. He'd already done his bottom time that day. When I came up, he was gone. The skiff was gone. The EPIRB was still on the deck, still armed. Nobody had called for help. Nobody had called for anything."
"The official report said he was last seen entering the water voluntarily."
"The official report said a lot of things." Owen met her eyes, and for the first time she saw something beneath the gruffness, a gentleness so unexpected it almost hurt to witness. "Your brother wouldn't have left that boat, Doc. Not without calling for help, not without telling me. Whatever happened down there, he didn't choose it. And if you're asking me whether something down in that water took him the same way it took Bart and Tommy, I can't tell you yes, because I didn't see it. But I can't tell you no, either. And I have spent twenty-five years wishing I could."
Elena looked down at the drawing in her hand, at the shape that refused to resolve into anything she could name. The bell at her apartment sat in its box in her closet, and she felt suddenly certain that she knew what it was, what it had always been, and that the knowledge was going to cost her something she could not yet calculate.
"I'm going back to the site," she said. "I need someone who knows those waters, who can identify the debris field from 1893, who can show me where the visibility drops off and the shape was."
Owen shook his head before she finished. "No."
"I wasn't asking permission."
"You weren't asking sense, either." He set down the rope and crossed his arms, the gesture not aggressive but immovable, a barrier constructed from a lifetime of knowing which currents to fight and which to let carry you. "Some things stay down because they're meant to stay down, Doc. I've pulled up a lot of things from a lot of wrecks, and most of them wanted to be found. Wreckage wants to be found. Cargo wants to be found. That thing, the shape Bart saw, it didn't want to be found. It wanted to be left."
"I don't have the luxury of leaving things where they lie."
Owen studied her for a long moment, his gaze moving from her face to the drawing and back again. Then he exhaled, a sound like air escaping a seal, and reached for the rag at his hip. "I'll take you out. One time. You show me what you found, I'll show you where the field is, and after that you do what you need to do without me. I won't go back in that water. Not for you, not for Marco, not for whoever that diver was that found your picture. I've been down twice when I shouldn't have, and both times I came up with less than I went in with."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." He tossed the rag onto the bench and jerked his chin toward the door. "Tomorrow, dawn, the Miss Abigail. You bring your own gear if you have it, and if you don't, I've got a regulator that'll kill you if you look at it wrong. We leave at first light, and we don't talk about it on the way out. Got it?"
"Got it."
She turned to go, and his voice stopped her at the door, quieter now, stripped of the gruff. "Doc. That drawing. Whoever brought it up, they're not the same person who went down. I know what that kind of change looks like. I saw it in Tommy's eyes the one time we spoke about it after. You watch your partner. You watch them close. And if they start talking about the shape like it's something they recognize, like it's an old friend, you get them out of the water and you don't let them back in."
Elena nodded once, not trusting her voice, and stepped out into the salt-heavy air. The sun had begun its slow descent toward the waterline, and the harbor lay before her in shades of pewter and rust, the boats tilting in their slips like sleeping animals, the gulls wheeling in long complaining arcs above the pilings. Somewhere beneath the surface, in the cold and the dark, the shape that had killed two men and taken her brother was waiting with the patience of something that had learned to count the years since anyone had disturbed it.
She walked back to her car with the drawing pressed against her chest, and she did not look at the water.
The morning arrived with the color of old bone. Elena stood in her kitchen at half past four, dressed in the wool sweater and canvas trousers she used for fieldwork, a thermos of bitter coffee warming her hands. The drawing lay on the counter where she had left it the night before, the charcoal lines stark against the pale laminate. She had not slept well. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the shape on the page resolving into something with her brother's face, and she would wake to the sound of her own breathing and the distant complaint of the foghorn at the breakwater.
She folded the drawing carefully along its original creases and slid it into the leather folio she used for case documents, then tucked the folio into the canvas satchel alongside her mask and her notebook and the small emergency kit she had assembled after Marcus disappeared. The kit contained a waterproof flashlight, a length of paracord, a dive watch, and three caffeine gel packets that she hated the thought of needing. She did not include a knife. She did not know what she would have cut with it, but the absence of a blade felt deliberate, a refusal she could not yet articulate.
Owen's pickup was idling at the end of her driveway when she stepped outside, a shape darker than the predawn dimness, the exhaust curling in white plumes that smelled of diesel and the cold. She climbed into the passenger side without greeting him, and he pulled away from the curb without greeting her, and the two of them rode in silence through streets that belonged to no one but the gulls and the early paper carriers. The radio was off. The heater breathed a thin warmth against her knees. Somewhere near the cannery, a dog barked twice and then did not bark again.
The Miss Abigail lay at the fuel dock, her lines slack in the slack water, her wheelhouse lit with the green glow of the instrument panel. Owen cut the engine and let the boat drift the last few feet, then stepped onto the dock with the ease of a man who had done it ten thousand times. Elena followed, her bag over her shoulder, her senses narrowing to the slap of water against the hull and the briny smell of the bait hold and the creak of the fenders as the boat shifted. The harbor was still. No other vessels moved. The town had not yet woken.
They prepared in silence. Owen checked the regulator and the tank and the first stage and the BCD with the methodical attention of a man who had learned caution from older men who had not lived to teach it. Elena sat on the upturned crate that served as a bench and watched him work, and she thought about the ledger she had found in the archive, and the entries in her father's hand, and the recurring figure of the tollkeeper, and the notation that had stopped her cold: the bell's debt, discharged. Whatever debt her father had imagined he was paying, whatever transaction he believed he had completed with the unnamed tollkeeper, it had been recorded on the seventh of October in the year she turned eleven. The same week she had overheard the argument in his study. The same week her mother had begun to cry at night behind the closed bedroom door.
She had not told Owen about the ledger. She had not told him because she did not yet know what it meant, and because the telling would require her to speak about her father in a way she had not spoken about him in twenty years, and because some part of her still believed that if she did not name the thing aloud, it might prove to be nothing more than the grief of a man who had lost a son to the water and could not forgive the water for taking him.
The engine caught on the first pull, a low rumble that vibrated through the soles of her boots and into the bones of her ankles. Owen steered them out of the harbor mouth and into the open water, where the swells ran long and gray beneath a sky that had not yet decided whether to clear. Elena stood at the bow with one hand on the rail and watched the town fall away behind them, the church spire first, then the rooftops, then the breakwater, then nothing but the water and the low hills of the far shore and the pale suggestion of the sun behind the cloud. The smell of the sea changed as they moved beyond the harbor, from the diesel-and-fish closeness of the docks to something colder and cleaner and older, a smell that belonged to the deep water and had nothing to do with the lives of men.
Owen cut the engine a quarter mile short of the coordinates Marcus had given her, and the boat wallowed in the trough between swells, rising and falling with a rhythm that made her stomach tighten. He handed her the regulator without comment and watched as she bit down on the mouthpiece and tested the airflow. The air tasted of rubber and salt. She spat once, adjusted the strap, and sat on the gunwale with her fins dangling over the water.
"Forty-three feet," he said. "The current runs southwest at maybe half a knot. You'll feel it on the wreck. Stay on the lee side and you'll be fine. You go to windward and you'll burn your air fighting it." He paused, studying her face in the gray light. "You stay on the wreck. You don't go chasing anything into the blue. You hear me? You see something that looks like it might be moving, you don't follow it. You come up. You come up slow, you do your safety stop, and you get back in this boat, and we talk about it on the way in."
"I hear you."
"I mean it, Doc."
"I know you do."
She rolled backward off the gunwale and the sea took her in a cold so absolute it stopped her breath. The surface closed over her head with a soft, percussive hush, and for a moment she was suspended between the world she had just left and the world beneath her, and the regulator hissed in her mouth, and her heart knocked once, hard, against the inside of her ribs. Then she equalized and began to descend.
The water darkened by degrees. At ten feet it was the color of rain on slate. At twenty it was the color of a bruise. At thirty it was the color of the inside of a coffin, and the only light was the gray cone of her torch cutting through the murk. Particles drifted past her mask in slow, endless procession, each one catching the beam and turning briefly luminous before vanishing into the dark. The visibility was less than ten feet. The world beyond the cone of her light did not exist.
She saw the wreck before she understood what she was seeing. A shape materialized out of the gloom, dark against dark, the lines of it resolving slowly as she approached: the curve of a hull, the upright ribs of a deckhouse, a wheel that had been twisted by the sinking and now pointed at an angle no maker had intended. Kelp streamed from the portholes in long brown banners that swayed with the surge. The wood was sheathed in a pale fuzz of marine growth, and everywhere she looked, the surface crawled with the small industrious life that colonizes whatever the sea is patient enough to claim.
She finned along the port side, trailing one hand along the hull to steady herself, and the current pressed against her shoulder with the insistence of a hand on her back. She found the cargo hold amidships, the hatch cover gone, the opening a dark rectangle that exhaled a smell of silt and rot and something fainter beneath, something that might have been lamp oil or might have been the ghost of whatever had been stored there a hundred and forty years ago. She ducked her head and went in.
The hold was smaller than she had imagined, perhaps twelve feet long and six wide, the ceiling low enough that she had to crouch to clear the beams. Her torch played across the planking, the ballast stones stacked along the centerline, the scattered remains of wooden crates that had collapsed into themselves and become indistinguishable from the debris around them. The sediment rose in clouds wherever her fins disturbed it, and the light turned the particles into a slow golden snow that fell and fell and never reached the bottom.
She found what she had come for against the forward bulkhead, half buried in the silt, the wood so dark with age that it appeared almost black. A strongbox, perhaps two feet square, bound in iron that had rusted to the color of dried blood. The lock had been forced at some point, the hasp bent back on itself, the hasp's screw heads stripped by a blade or a pry bar. She brushed the silt away with her glove and felt the iron cold through the neoprene, and she did not know, until she had already done it, that she was going to open it.
The lid came away with a groan that she felt more than heard, the swollen wood releasing its grip on the frame with the reluctance of something that had been sealed for a long time. Inside, nested in a fold of oilcloth that had gone the color of old paper, lay a bell. Not a ship's bell, though it had the shape of one. A smaller thing, perhaps five inches tall, cast in a metal that was neither bronze nor brass but something darker, something that had gone almost black with tarnish and yet still held a faint luster beneath the corrosion. The surface was covered in raised figures, not letters but pictographs, the same looping shapes she had seen in her father's ledger and in the margins of the book in Arthur's shop. There was a clapper, suspended on a pin of the same dark metal, and though she did not touch it, she could see that it hung at an angle, as though it had been rung and then left to settle into its silence.
She reached for the bell. Her fingers were perhaps an inch from the surface when the current shifted, a sudden lateral push that tumbled a cloud of silt across her mask and turned the world to static. She froze, held her breath, waited for the water to clear. When it did, the bell was gone. Not moved. Not tumbled by the surge. Gone, the way a thought is gone when you reach for it and find only the shape of the having-thought. The strongbox lay open and empty, the oilcloth undisturbed, and the only sound in the hold was the hiss of her regulator and the slow, patient hammering of her own heart.
She did not go chasing it. Owen's voice was in her head, steady and certain as the man himself, and she obeyed it the way you obey the voice of someone who has already lost what you are afraid of losing. She finned backward out of the hold, checked her gauges, began her ascent. The air in her tank read 1,400 pounds. The depth read thirty-eight feet. The current pressed against her as she rose, and she let it press, and she did not fight it, and she did not look down into the dark below her fins to see what was rising with her.
She broke the surface in a clean exhale, the regulator falling from her lips, the air hitting her face like a slap. Owen was there, the boat's hull a foot from her mask, his hand extended. She grabbed it and let him haul her up and over the gunwale, and she lay on her back on the deck with her eyes closed and her chest heaving and the salt drying on her lips.
"I didn't find anything," she said.
He looked at her for a long moment, then at the water, then at her again. "All right," he said, and did not ask, and that was its own kind of answer.
They rode back in the same silence they had ridden out, the wake unspooling behind them in a long white seam that the sea smoothed over as soon as the boat had passed. Elena sat with her satchel on her lap and her hands pressed flat against the canvas, and she felt the absence of the bell the way you feel the absence of a tooth you have just had pulled, the strange new emptiness that is somehow heavier than the thing it replaced.
At the fuel dock, Owen tied up and killed the engine and turned to her with the slowness of a man choosing his ground. "What did you see, Doc?"
She looked at him. She thought about her father's ledger, the bell's debt, discharged. She thought about the shape on the drawing, and the tollkeeper who collected payments in a coin she did not yet understand. She thought about her brother, who had gone down to the wreck to find something and had come back changed, and she thought about the bell that had been in the strongbox and was not in the strongbox, and she knew with a clarity that felt like cold water that she could not tell him the truth. Not because he would not believe her. Because he would, and she was not yet ready to be believed.
"I saw a wreck," she said. "I saw kelp and silt and ballast stones. I saw a strongbox that had been opened a long time ago." She paused. "I saw a place where something had been, and wasn't anymore."
He nodded once, slowly, and she could see that he was measuring her words against some private scale of his own, and finding them either wanting or sufficient, she could not tell which. "You coming back tomorrow?"
"I don't know yet."
He climbed out onto the dock and began to secure the lines, and she walked back up the ramp toward the street without looking back at the water, because she had promised herself she would not, and because she was afraid that if she did, she would see something rising to the surface to watch her go. The morning had brightened while she was under, and the town lay before her in the sharp clear light of a day that had decided to be kind, and she walked through it with the folio pressed against her chest and the absence of the bell ringing in her ears like a sound she could almost, but not quite, remember.
She did not know yet that the bell had followed her home. She would find it that evening, on the floor of her kitchen, between the counter and the stove, resting on the linoleum as though it had always been there, as though it had been waiting for her to come back and finish the transaction her father had begun thirty years ago on the seventh of October in the year she turned eleven. She would pick it up, and the metal would be warm, and the pictographs would shift under her thumb like the surface of water disturbed by a passing boat, and she would understand at last what the tollkeeper had come to collect.
But that was tomorrow's reckoning. For now, she walked through the brightening streets with her eyes on the pavement and her hand pressed flat against the folio, and she did not look at the water, and the water did not look back, and the morning held its peace like a coin balanced on its edge.