Nima Harrow looks like someone carved from storm-worn driftwood and then dressed in unexpectedly careful finery. Their skin is sun-browned and salt-flecked, with faint pale lines across the knuckles from old rope burns. Their movements are quick and economical, but never graceful for long, as if they are always one step away from slipping on invisible wet planks. They wear a patched harbor coat lined with crushed blue velvet at the cuffs, an absurdly luxurious touch against the smell of tar, rain, and fish oil. A brass counting frame hangs at one hip beside a narrow knife, and when Nima is nervous they unconsciously roll the beads as if prayer could be reduced to arithmetic.