Page 4 of Just One More Thing

Chasing crabs is his favorite activity.

It’s also his only activity.

He goes everywhere with me. Boat. Bar. Town. As long as there are snuggles to collect, a lap to park his head on, and a cookie waiting at the other end, he’s in.

I cut the engine. Hank rolls over and lifts his head just enough to scan the dock, lets out an annoyed sigh because he knows this requires him to get up, then drops it back down and starts fake snoring.

“Almost home,” I tell him.

One eye opens. That’s all the effort he’s giving me.

“Hey, Tommy,” I call. “Mind grabbing that line and tying me off?”

“Sure thing, Jake.”

Tommy catches the rope and loops it around the cleat in a neat figure eight like he’s been doing it his whole life. A lot of us around here have.

I step onto the dock, muck boots landing on weathered wood, and roll my shoulder out. Nothing dramatic. Just loosening up the familiar pull that comes from hauling pots all day.

I turn back and hoist Hank onto the dock instead of lowering the ramp and waiting on him to decide he feels like using it. He goes limp on purpose.

Tommy laughs. “He looks like a sack of taters when you do that.”

“He feels like one too.”

The second his feet hit the planks, Hank acts like he got there under his own power, lumbering down the dock with a snort, chest out and not one ounce of gratitude for the lift.

Tommy bends to scratch his back. “How’d y’all do today?”

I nod toward the crate. “Enough blue crab for Bethany to run a locals special tonight.”

“Nice.”

I lift the crate, settle the weight against my hip, and head toward the prep area behind The Knuckle. The smell hits before I even round the side of the building. Salt, fish, fryer oil drifting out from inside, and that faint sun-baked dock smell that gets into everything around here and never really leaves.

The business has been in my family longer than I’ve been alive. My granddad built the original place with his own hands back when Blue Crab Bay was quieter and people came because they meant to, not because some magazine called it charming.Dad added the restaurant later, when the town got busier and the summers got louder.

Crabbing was supposed to be my life too. I learned knots before numbers. Tides before time zones. Could bait a line and read the weather before I could color inside the lines. Dad used to say the bay was the only boss worth answering to. Granddad always said the bay didn’t care whether you answered or not.

Then football happened.

I loved it. Loved the discipline. The strategy. The way every inch had to be earned. Loved Saturdays at Neyland, the whole place shaking under your feet with a hundred thousand Tennessee Volunteers singingRocky Top. Loved walking out to cannons firing in a Buccaneers jersey, knowing I’d worked for every bit of it. I still love the game. Probably always will.

But this is where my breathing evens out. Where the noise fades.

Most days.

Tommy falls into step beside me. “You need help?”

“Thanks. I’ve got it. Go check on your mama.”

He nods. “She’s doing better today. Still mad about it.”

I smile. “Sounds right.”

“She wanted me to thank you. For checking in. For bringing soup.”

“It wasn’t much.”