Twelve
Monday, March 8, 4:35 P.M. CST
Mr. Fields Bay
As they entered Mr. Fields Bay, the location of Ignacio and Julian’s crustacean farms, the stench of dead shellfish and open latrines met Eva’s nose. Across the long bay, a latticework of barnacled buoys supported acres of square cage enclosures. Several small work shacks dotted the walkways, which were cluttered with stacks of blue containers. There was a modern-looking office and a few rustic dormitory-style buildings in the distance, but much of the land was empty, the cleared mangroves leaving expanses of red earth guttered by rain runoff.
Ignacio was on the dock, talking to someone beside a long, nondescript submarine, which submersed at their approach. It looked familiar, Eva thought, but she couldn’t place seeing it on Roatan
