Which is why I’m soaking wet as I haul a propane tank over my shoulder, stepping carefully toward the bow along the edge of a barge filled with massive mountains of black coal. I expected raw coal to be lumpy, but it’s much finer than that, almost powdery.

Leaping from the towboat to the cargo barges is dangerous work, it turns out. They’re connected by the thinnest of paraphernalia—a few wires and levers and hooks—so that the cargo barges occasionally separate from the boat, leaving a gap. Then, when the waves hit just right, that gap disappears, the parts slamming back against each other. Manny says many a towboat crewmember has lost their life falling into that gap.

So Trey and I have been taking it slow and careful, leaping farther than it looks like we ought to, just in case of separation. At the bow, Wyatt is knee-deep in coal, shoveling out pockets of space for the propane tanks. He’s covered in black stuff, and a bandana is pulled up across his mouth and nose to protect his lungs. Waves hit him from behind as he shovels, and his sweatshirt and jeans are drenched with lake water. The moisture might be a good thing, though, keeping the coal dust down.

I’m halfway to Wyatt with another propane tank when he bends over, gasping for air.

“Wyatt, you okay?” I call.

He nods, though he’s leaning heavily on the shovel. After a moment, he picks it up and gets back to work. But he’s moving slower now, taking deep breaths between each shovelful.

I pick up my pace. We only have two hours to get the barge loaded and drive it back to Sandusky before the dragonflies are out in force again. I should volunteer to take a turn shoveling, give him a rest.

My body is holding up surprisingly well. I’ve been lugging these tanks, leaping to the barge, keeping my balance with each angry wave. My legs burn with effort, but it’s a good burn, the kind you get during a satisfying workout. I revel in it a little, enjoying the spray on my face, the feel of my lungs pushed to their max. My dog-bitten foot doesn’t even hurt anymore.

I barely register my name being called beyond wind and waves. I turn. Trey is on the lower deck, waving both arms at me.

“What?” I holler back.

He points, gesturing wildly—toward Wyatt, maybe?

“Trey, I can’t hear y—”

He leaps to the barge and sprints toward me, shouting, arms still waving. He points at Wyatt—no, beyond Wyatt. To the water.

“There’s something out there!” he yells, finally near enough that I can make out his words. “In the water. Moving fast.” He beckons with his hand, urging me to come back, as he yells past me: “Wyatt! Get out of there!”