“One man’s wasted time is another man’s”—Quint seems to contemplate how to end this aphorism for a long time—“hobby, I guess.”
I grin. “You could embroider that on a pillow.”
“Har-har. I just think it’s okay to be excited when something good and unexpected comes your way. Even if it is just a watch. Heck, even if it’s just a penny. It’s still, like … a good omen. Right?”
I want to make fun of him, and maybe in the past I would have. It sounds like something Ari’s abuela, who I’ve learned is very superstitious, would say. Good omens, the language of the universe, the power of intuition.
Except, I sort of have to believe in that stuff now, don’t I?
I wonder what the beachcomber thought when she dug up that earring. Does she believe it’s nothing more than a happy coincidence, or does she know, on some deeper level, that it was a reward, a cosmic thank-you for helping keep this beach clean?
I shake my head. “I usually won’t even bother to pick up a penny.”
“A lucky penny? Really?”
“It’s just a penny.”
He looks for a second like this is the saddest thing he’s ever heard. Like his disappointment in me cannot be properly expressed. But then his expression clears. “Probably for the best. Maybe the person who comes along after you really needed to find a lucky penny that day.”
“So a stray penny is a gift from the universe, but choosing to not pick it up is like … paying it forward?”
“Who are we to question the powers that be?”
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
Ever since my fall at Encanto, I am the powers that be. It’s a heady thought.
“Anyway.” Quint reaches for the bag at my side and withdraws a large stack of flyers. “I was just coming to get more of these.” He uses his fingers to fan through them, like thumbing through a flip book, then smacks the papers against his palm. I think he might be stalling, thinking of something else to say. “But let me know when you get hungry. Those gyros smelled amazing.”
TWENTY-FIVE
I watch Quint walk away, weirdly mesmerized by the way the sun glints off his hair. My insides flutter.
Noooooo, my mind howls at me. Why is this happening? How is this happening?
I want to deny it. Oh, I desperately want to deny it.
But the evidence is right there in my traitorous little heart, which is still hiccuping from his presence.
Gosh darn it. I think I might be starting to like Quint Erickson.
I grimace. I am so annoyed with myself right now. To be crushing on lazy, irresponsible, goof-off Quint? It’s unfathomable!
Except … how much of that is true? I’ve seen him working at the center. He’s not lazy. He’s not irresponsible. He’s still relaxed and easygoing and fun. He’s still charming, friendly to everyone. He’s still quick to crack a joke.
But even if, by some bizarre twist of fate, it turns out that Quint is sort of my type … there is no way that I could possibly be his.
Do you ever think you might be too hard to please?
My stomach curdles. I don’t think he was trying to be mean when he said that, but still, remembering the words makes me ache.
I’m startled from my thoughts by a commotion down the beach. I turn, squinting into the sun.
A log has washed up on the shore and some kids have abandoned their boogie boards to gather around it. I hear a mom yelling—Don’t touch it! I frown. My feet carry me a few steps closer. A couple of adults are talking, pointing. Someone is cooing at the log, starry-eyed, like it’s … like it’s a …
An animal.
Like a helpless, frightened, friggin’ adorable animal that just washed ashore.
I start to run. I don’t know what I think I’m going to do, but Quint’s photographs are flashing through my memory like a reel of tragedy and trauma. In the weeks I’ve been working at the rescue center I’ve heard countless stories of how animals were found. Some of the stories seem implausible—like the time a seal clopped in through the back door of a local pub and was found hanging out in one of the booths the next morning—but most of the time, the animals wash up onto the beach, just like now. If they’re lucky, someone spots them and calls the rescue center. But sometimes people want to help. Sometimes they want to touch it.
Sometimes it doesn’t end well—for the animal or for the people.
“Get back!” I yell, my heels kicking up sand. My cry startles everyone who has gathered around the animal. A sea lion, I can see now. My breaths are ragged, but my mind is suddenly full with the sight of the creature. It’s just like Quint’s photos, and now I can tell the difference between an animal that is healthy and strong, and one that’s dehydrated and starving and probably on the brink of death. I think something might be wrong with its eyes. They seem cloudy and there’s some thick yellowish liquid beneath one. Its body is quivering as I approach.
“Is it dead?” asks a little girl, getting ready to prod it with a stick.
I snatch the stick out of her hand and she makes an outraged sound, but I ignore her. “I’m with the sea animal rescue center,” I say, pointing to the logo on my yellow shirt. Immediately, I have authority. I have the respect of everyone around. Suddenly, I’m the expert in this situation, and I can see relief in some of the parents’ eyes when they realize that someone else has assumed responsibility.
At which point, I freeze.
Now what do I do?
Quint, my mind eagerly supplies. Quint will know what to do.
My arms are still outstretched, standing in front of the sea lion like a protective … mama … lioness? Egad, I don’t even have the right vocabulary for this situation. Pureeing fish guts all day doesn’t lend itself to a full bank of knowledge about these animals, after all.
“Don’t touch him,” I say to the crowd, all the while scanning the beach for signs of Quint. But it’s so crowded. He could be anywhere.
“It’s a boy?” someone asks, to which someone else replies, “How can you tell?”
“I can’t—I don’t know. But I do know that, while these aren’t violent animals, they can lash out when they’re scared. Please, just back up. Give him some space.”
No one argues.
I spot a lifeguard stand, and I remember that part of the local lifeguard training involves knowing how to handle beached animals. Sometimes they even have kennels kept in their storage units for animals that need to be taken in for rehabilitation.
“You!” I point the stolen stick at the girl who had wanted to poke the sea lion with it. She jumps back a foot, her eyes wide. “You’re in charge. Keep everyone back at least ten feet, okay?”
Her expression brightens, then floods with a sense of duty. It’s the same expression Penny gets when she’s charged with an important task. The girl gives me a determined nod.
I hand the stick back to her and turn to her mom. “I’m going to see if that lifeguard can help us. Can you call the rescue center? They can send a truck to come get it.” I wait until she’s started to dial the number that’s printed on the back of my shirt before I take off running again. My legs are aching and my side starts to get a stitch, but soon I’m standing at the base of the lifeguard chair.
It’s empty.
“What the heck?” I roar. Are they even allowed to leave their posts? It takes another few seconds of scanning the beach, seconds that feel like hours, before I notice the signature white tank top and bright red shorts. The lifeguard is near the surf, yelling at a couple kids who have swum out past the buoys. I race over to him. “I need help!”
He looks up, startled, and I’m surprised to recognize a senior from school, though I don’t know his name. “There’s a beached sea lion,” I say, pointing. “It needs to be taken to the animal rescue center. Do you have a kennel?”
His eyes dart past me, but we can’t see the animal from where we are. The crowd around it has gotten too thick. I really hope that kid is doing
a good job of keeping everyone at bay.
He looks back to check that the kids in the water have started swimming back toward the shore, then nods at me. “I’ll be right there. Don’t let anyone touch it.”
I scoff and point to the logo on my T-shirt again. “Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.”
The first thing I notice when I get back to the sea lion is that its eyes are closed. Terror crashes into me. Is it dead?
“I didn’t let anyone touch it,” the little girl says, still gripping the stick like a warrior.
“Here!” her mom shouts, shoving her cell phone under my nose. “They want to talk to you.”
I take the phone. Sweat is dripping down the back of my neck. I crouch down a couple of feet away from the sea lion, relieved when its eyes flicker open, still cloudy. It’s probably my imagination, but it feels like the animal is happy to see me again.
“Hello?” I say into the phone, my voice strained.
“Prudence?” It’s Rosa.
“Yeah. Hi. There’s a sea lion washed up on the beach, just north of—”
“I know, I know,” says Rosa. “Listen. There’s no way a recovery vehicle can get in there. With the traffic going into downtown right now, it would take hours.”
My heart squeezes. The sea lion has shut its eyes again.
I don’t think we have hours.
“What do I do?” I say, panic gripping me. Suddenly, this feels like the most important thing in my life. This creature. This helpless, innocent, hurting animal. I remember Quint telling me, maybe my third day at the center, that not all the creatures they bring in survive. About 10 percent die within the first twenty-four hours, already too far gone to be rehabilitated, no matter what they do.
But that isn’t an option. I have to save this one.
“If you can find something to transport it in,” Rosa says, “maybe someone there has a vehicle you can use. It would be a lot easier for you to get a car out of downtown than it would be for us to get to you.”
A commotion draws my attention upward and I see the lifeguard charging toward us, a large crate in hand.
“Prudence?” says Rosa.
“Okay,” I say, a ferocious new conviction filling me. “We’ll come to you.”
“We’ll be ready when you get here.”
I end the call and toss the phone back to the woman. She scrambles, barely catching it before it drops into the sand.
“Pru!” Quint barges through the crowd, his face flushed like he’s just run a mile. “I heard there’s a—” He freezes in his tracks, his attention landing on the sea lion. It takes him all of two seconds to assess the situation and before I know it, he’s taking charge, stealing my professional responsibilities with a few confident orders barked at the crowd. You, see that bucket there? Go fill it with water.
Yes, ocean water is fine.
And I need some wet towels. Can we borrow yours? Let’s get that umbrella over here, give it some shade—we need to try to keep it from overheating as much as possible.
I experience a moment of irritation that he’s stealing my authority, but it’s smothered by a swell of relief. It’s the opposite of biology class, where I was always the one giving orders, telling him what to do. It’s a welcome change, especially in this situation, and … honestly, watching him take charge is kind of sexy.
I gulp, suddenly flustered.
“Quint?” says the lifeguard.
Quint glances at him and recognition fills his face. “Steven! Hey! How’s your summer?”
“Busy,” says Steven.
I gawk at them. “Excuse me!” I say, flabbergasted, and gesture to the sea lion. “Please focus.”
Quint gives me a look, suggesting, Hey, I can’t help it if I’m friends with literally every person at our school.
“What can we do?”
I look up to see Ari, Jude, and Ezra. A grin splits across my face. They’re all wearing matching yellow shirts, and together we look like an official rescue party.
Seeing the stacks of blue papers in their hands, it occurs to me that I couldn’t have planned for better publicity.
“Jude, help Quint and, uh, Steven,” I say, taking his flyers and dividing them between Ari and Ezra. “Pass these out.”
While Quint, Jude, and the lifeguard gently roll the sea lion onto a blanket so it can be hoisted into the waiting crate, I step away from their work and face the crowd. People all around us are snapping photos on their phones, watching with eager, worried eyes.
I inhale a deep breath. I don’t have time to rehearse, but I also don’t have time to get nervous.
“Folks, we’re here from the Fortuna Beach Sea Animal Rescue Center,” I say. “We obviously had no idea that this animal was going to wash ashore during our festival today, but this is a prime example of the sort of work we do. The rescue center works tirelessly to rescue injured and stranded sea animals—including sea lions like this little guy, but also elephant seals, harbor seals, fur seals, sea turtles, even otters.”
“What about dolphins?” asks the girl with the stick.
I smile at her. “Unfortunately, our facility is too small to care for dolphins, but in the past, we have worked to rescue and transport dolphins to a larger center near San Francisco.”
Her eyes go wide. “Cool.”
“When animals come into our care, we feed and rehydrate them. Our on-staff veterinarian cares for their wounds. Rehabilitation can take weeks or even months. But our goal, with every one of our patients, is to treat them until they are healthy and strong enough to be returned to their natural habitat.” I swoop my hand toward the crashing waves.
With the sea lion secured onto the blankets, Quint and the others prepare to lift it into the crate. “Our hope is that this beautiful sea lion won’t be with us at the center for long, but will very soon be brought back here, to his home. In fact, this time of year, we’re releasing rehabilitated animals back into the ocean almost every week. And if you want to be a part of one of those releases, we’re inviting all of you to join us—tomorrow afternoon, right here! We’re hosting a community-wide beach cleanup beginning at ten a.m., and once this beach is clean and safe for our animal friends, we’ll be releasing four seals that have recently been given a clean bill of health. I would love to see all of you here, helping to support our beach, our organization, and these gorgeous creatures.” The sea lion watches me from inside the crate, its eyes fearful and confused. Quint crouches down in front of it to snap a few photos with his camera, before the lifeguard shuts the grate and latches it closed.
To my surprise, the crowd cheers.
I beam. “Grab a flyer if you don’t have one yet, and you can learn more about tomorrow’s cleanup-and-release celebration! And if you can’t make it, we are accepting monetary donations! People, these animals eat a lot of fish, which doesn’t come cheap.”
There are a few chuckles, but with the sea lion no longer in sight, some of the less-interested members of the crowd are already meandering back to their blankets.
“Nice speech,” says Quint, settling a hand on top of the crate. He swipes a sleeve over his damp brow. “How far out is the recovery vehicle?”
I blink at him, and he must see the horrible realization rush through me. His eyes fill with understanding. “They’re not sending one.”
“Traffic,” I stammer. “Your mom said it would be easier if we had a vehicle that we could drive it out in…”
Quint turns to the lifeguard. “Do you have a car?”
“No, man. I rode my bike here.” He points toward a packed bike rack up on the boardwalk.
“I have the wagon,” says Ari. “It should fit.”
I turn to her. Her eyes are wide and bright with concern, and I’m hit with a sudden, almost painful tug behind my heart. “Thank you, Ari. Where are you parked?”
She points, and I can see the turquoise car from here. She arrived early enough to get a premium spot, not half a block up the beach.
“Pull
it around,” says the lifeguard. “We’ll have you back it up to here. I’ll help direct you.” He nods at Quint. “Keep the crowds back, all right?”
While we wait, I kneel down beside the crate. The sea lion is resting its head, its eyes closed again. I’m terrified for it. The fear that is surging through my veins is palpable.
“We’re doing our best,” I whisper. “Please don’t die, okay?”
If it hears me, it shows no sign.
A hand brushes between my shoulder blades. Quint crouches beside me and I glance over at him, his face pinched with the same concern. I wonder how many times he’s been through this. How many rescues he’s seen. I wonder how many he’s watched die, after trying so very hard to save them.
I don’t think I could stand it.
“I’ve seen worse,” he says, pulling his hand away from me and idly running it along the strap of his camera. “I think it’ll be okay.” His eyes slide over to me. “You’ll get to name it, you know.”
My heart lurches at the thought. I already feel a responsibility toward this creature, though it hasn’t been more than twenty minutes since I first saw it. To name it seems like a privilege I’m unprepared for.
“Not yet,” I whisper. “I need to know it’s going to be okay first.”
He nods, and I know he understands.
“Can you tell if it’s a boy or a girl?”
He shakes his head. “Not when they’re this young. When they get bigger, the males will develop a ridge on their head that females don’t have. Plus, they’re bigger and their fur tends to be darker. But it’s too early to tell on this one.” He looks at me. “Opal will give it an inspection at the center, though. She’ll be able to tell us.”
I’m digesting this information when I hear a series of short, almost polite honks. I look up to see the station wagon driving slowly along the beach. Jude and Ezra are holding back the crowd as Ari makes her way toward us. For someone who’s barely comfortable driving on residential roads, I know she must be completely freaked out. But she has her brave face on, I can tell even with the windshield dividing us.
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