Steam rose off simmering spiced cider along the Neon Boardwalk, cutting through the December chill. Tonight, the cinnamon tang did nothing to soothe the tension. Oona, now seven years old, sat on a stool behind the counter of the ‘Sun-Pocket’ stall, her small hands meticulously polishing a copper ladle. Her five-year-old limbs sat still, coiled under the quiet surface. Her gaze drifted across the narrow folding table to her mother Maeve and her father Cormac, who sat picking at cold hand-pies during the lull between shifts. Cormac toyed with a crust, lines creasing his brow. Maeve tried to coax a laugh from him, though her fingers trembled against her mug. Boombox, now a plump, well-fed ferret with a proud limp, snuffled at Oona’s ankle, his single good eye occasionally darting towards the frosted glass of the stall, as if sensing the impending storm. Julian, a lanky ten-year-old with a quiet intensity that had deepened over the years, leaned against the adjacent pillar, polishing his own set of cutlery. His dark gaze was fixed on the street beyond, a silent sentinel. “The arcade crowd thinned early,” Maeve offered, smoothing her apron. “Gives us time to clean up properly.” Cormac pushed his plate away. “Quiet everywhere, Maeve. The radio warns of record freezes ahead. Hard frost keeps customers indoors.” He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture Oona knew preceded a deeper anxiety. Just then, the cold air sliced through the stall as Matriarch Enid Carlow swept in, her heavy velvet cloak shedding a fine mist of snow. Her presence was a suffocating weight, instantly silencing the faint chatter from a nearby vendor. Callan, her usual shadow, followed close behind, a smirk playing on his lips. “Well, well,” Enid purred, fixing her gaze squarely on Cormac. “A family supper. How touching. Savoring your last meal out of a cell, Cormac?” Cormac flinched. Maeve covered her mouth with both hands. Oona felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach, a familiar phantom static beginning to prickle at the edges of her hearing. “What are you talking about, Enid?” Maeve stammered. Enid merely smiled, a predatory gleam in her eyes. “Oh, nothing much. Just a little visit from the authorities. Seems some unsavory business has been conducted under the ‘Sun-Pocket’ name. Embezzlement, to be precise.” She paused for dramatic effect, letting her words hang in the frigid air. “And guess who signed all the paperwork?” A wail of sirens, piercing the night, shattered the fragile peace. Blue and red lights began to pulse, painting the wet cobblestones with an ominous glow. Two patrol cruisers pulled up directly in front of their stall, doors swinging open. Cormac went pale, looking toward Oona as if searching for an anchor. Oona wanted to scream, to tell him it would be okay, but the words caught in her throat. She gripped the ladle so tightly her knuckles whitened. “They came for you, Cormac,” Enid announced, pointing a ringed finger. She reached into her cloak, pulling out a sheaf of papers bound with red ribbon. “A full confession, signed and notarized. All the debts, all the missing funds… all blamed on you.” She held it aloft like a trophy, her face alight with malicious glee. “I’ve simply ensured your little venture finally pays its dues. To me.” As the patrolmen closed the distance, the woman leading them raised a summons. “Cormac Carlow, you are under arrest—” [The timeline has drastically changed. New broadcast: Winter 1994. The Port Oram Ledger Scandal. Matriarch Enid Carlow’s empire crumbles. A new dawn for the Neon Boardwalk.] The phantom radio static surged, then solidified into clear, distinct words. Oona blinked, trying to process the shift. This wasn't a warning, it was a *broadcast*. A news report, playing out in real-time, right here, right now. “Hold on,” a rough voice cut through the cruiser squawk. The back door of the second cruiser swung open, and Carmine stepped into the neon wash. The syndicate boss adjusted his lapels and held up a thick, leather-bound account book. Enid’s smile vanished, her lips parting as Callan froze beside her. Carmine stepped up to the sergeant. “Pardon the interruption, Sergeant Reyes. You have the wrong name.” He handed over the bound volume. “The trail starts and ends right here.” Sergeant Reyes took the volume and thumbed through receipt carbons and bank stamps. “Every slush account from the docks... all of it.” She turned to face Enid. “Enid Carlow, hands behind your back. You are under arrest for fraud, grand larceny, and conspiracy.” Enid’s face contorted, a mask of fury and disbelief. “This is absurd!” Enid shrieked, stabbing a glove toward Carmine. “He cooked those records! That gutter rat fabricated every line!” Carmine let out a dry rasp. “You dipped into waterfront transit receipts, lady. You burned stalls that owed you nothing. Those books carry your personal notary stamp.” Nearby cart owners muttered and gathered along the boardwalk rail. Two fry cooks began to whistle. Cormac and Maeve clung to each other in disbelief, while Julian rested his bandaged arm against the counter with a quiet exhale. Reyes signaled her squad. Two patrolmen caught Enid by her velvet sleeves. She thrashing against their grips. “Take your hands off me! I own half the waterfront council!” “Not anymore, Grandma,” Oona murmured under her breath, a quiet satisfaction blossoming in her chest. She had done it. They were free. This was the new dawn. As the steel cuffs clicked around her wrists, Enid snarled, her gaze boring straight into Cormac. “You worthless wretch! You ruined this family!” With a sudden jerk, Enid tore one hand free from the cuff. Her fingers dipped into her velvet mantle and dragged out a small, nickel-plated revolver. Shouts split the pier as she aimed the snub barrel straight at Cormac. The shot cracked through the cold night air.

The Winter of '94