One of the reasons there weren't many young people in town was simple:
The old folks wanted them gone.
Not out of spite. Out of hope.
They knew this place had no future. It wasn't a town—it was a waiting room for the grave.
No jobs. No opportunities. No purpose.
This was a place to retire, not start over.
So when Henry showed up—young, strong, and clearly not from around here—they welcomed him without question… but also assumed he wouldn't stay.
Today's question wasn't random.
It was a test. A nudge.
If he wasn't running from the law, and wasn't hiding from some broken heart, then he had no business wasting his best years in a dying town full of dying men.
He should be out there. Somewhere.
And if he didn't know where to go?
Well, these old-timers had plenty of ideas.
That was just what bored old men did—matchmake careers like their wives matched up grandkids.
But Henry, ever the smartass, brushed it off with a smirk.
"How'm I supposed to get there? Swim to California?"
John, wiping down the bar with his usual gruff patience, didn't miss a beat.
"If it's money you need," he said evenly, "I've got a stash."
Henry blinked.
The comment wasn't a joke. And it wasn't casual, either.
There was something in John's tone—firm, unshakable. No pity. No hesitation.
Just an offer. Plain and honest.
Henry turned toward him, the sarcasm dying in his throat.
Every instinct in him said to decline. Years of struggling had taught him that handouts always came with strings. Favors meant debts. Gifts meant leverage.
But when he met John's eyes—clear, steady, impossible to read—something told him this wasn't that kind of offer.
The old man didn't pity him.
He respected him.
And that made it even harder to say yes.
Still, Henry tried to joke his way out of it. "Come on. What kind of paycheck am I getting here? I've eaten my weight in food since I got here. If you paid me minimum wage, I'd still be in the red."
John huffed, glaring. "This is my bar, and I'll decide what you're worth. I've got more saved up than you think. I could drop it all on some college girl and still have enough left to bury your sorry ass in style."
Henry grinned. "Better save it for a coffin with a decent lid. If the coyotes have to dig you up and you're just bones and gristle, you'll be screwing them out of a decent meal."
The bar erupted in laughter, John included—though he looked like he wanted to throw the nearest whiskey bottle at Henry's head.
And just like that, the tension faded.
That's how things worked in this town. Banter was how they talked. Teasing meant you belonged.
Then someone called out from a corner booth.
"If you want money, why not try the crab boats?"
"What, is it that time again?"
"Yup. Season's opening soon. Word is, captains are already looking for greenhorns."
"Didn't someone try to sell their boat last year?"
"Sell it? Hell no. He just wants a sucker to be captain while he collects the cash. You don't sell a boat that brings in gold—just hire someone else to do the dangerous part."
That kicked off a whole round of local gossip.
Henry barely followed half of it.
He turned to John, brow raised. "Wait… crabbing? Like, real crab? That pays?"
One of the older guys leaned in. "Not just any crab, kid. King crab. The kind with legs that stretch taller than a man. Worth a fortune."
"King crab?" Henry repeated, stunned. He'd never tasted it—couldn't afford to—but he'd seen the price tags. Enough to make a broke man cry.
If that was what they were fishing up here, then yeah—he could see why people risked their lives for it.
John, however, looked unimpressed. "It's tough work. And dangerous."
"But honest," someone else cut in. "No worse than construction, and way better pay. You get a full haul, a good captain? You're looking at thirty grand for two weeks' work. Even rookies walk away with five."
Henry went quiet.
He hadn't handled the bar's finances, but from what he'd observed, the dollar had roughly the same value as back home.
Beer: a buck or so. A steak dinner: maybe five or ten. Rent? You could buy a house for under ten grand. Own a bar like John's for thirty.
Small town prices, sure—but that only made the math more tempting.
One good run on a crab boat could pay for a house.
One trip.
Henry wasn't dumb. That was a hell of an opportunity.
Still, he didn't jump at it. Not yet.
Instead, he glanced at John again, searching the old man's face.
They hadn't said it aloud, but Henry knew—they were alike.
Low-risk. Low-profile. Survive first, dream later.
So he waited for the verdict.
John didn't dodge it.
"If you want to try it," he said, "I won't stop you. It's an honest job. But make no mistake—men die out there. Every year, boats go down and never come back. You're not just risking sore muscles and bruised pride."
Henry nodded.
It was more than fair. It was the truth.
King crab season only lasted a few months, but it was one of Alaska's biggest industries. Everyone knew someone who'd tried it. Everyone had heard the stories.
It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't romantic. It was dangerous, brutal, and paid in blood and bone.
But it paid well.
And Henry… Henry needed money.
Desperately.
Not just for survival. For a future. For freedom.
He'd spent nearly twenty years as a lab rat, a prisoner with no choices. Now, for the first time, he could choose anything.
And in a world like this?
Money wasn't just power.
It was protection.
Stealing from the town wouldn't help. There wasn't enough cash in the entire bar to fund a one-way trip to Anchorage.
But the crab boats? That was real.
And real was all Henry wanted.
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