Page 9

Inside the office, there’s no more line. One college-age receptionist sits behind the counter, picking her nails. Her hair is slicked back into a ponytail, her work polo tucked meticulously into khaki pants. My kind of girl.

“I need to buy a ticket for the ten thirty a.m. ferry to Scorpion Cove,” I say, sliding my credit card across the counter.

“It’s already boarding,” she says, twisting the end of her long black ponytail.

“I’m ready to hop on now.”

She starts typing, her eyes skimming a computer monitor angled away from me. I smile, forcing myself to stay patient even as I glance outside and see that almost everyone has boarded.

“I’m sorry, the boat has checked in full.”

“I was supposed to be on the nine a.m. with my family. They’re already on their way to the island. And all my stuff’s with them, so it’s just me. Barely any extra weight.” I gesture to my small frame, widening my smile. I’ll play nice for now, but that boat’s not leaving without me. This girl has no idea who she’s dealing with.

“I’m sorry.”

“How could it have checked in full? I know for a fact that not all of the campsites are at full capacity.” I know because we reserved the entire upper loop, which can accommodate five times the amount of campers we have in our group.

“We don’t keep track of the campers, only who’s on the boat. So, there could be a lot of people taking day trips?” She practically pleads for me to let this go. That’s how I know I’ve got her.

I notice a name tag on her shirt. “Kim, is it? Kim, in this backpack is my son’s inhaler.” It’s probably bad karma to pretend Wyatt has asthma. Then again, I don’t believe in karma any more than I do fate. “I went all the way back to Pasadena to retrieve it because my husband forgot it.” It’s petty. I know it’s petty. Still, I can’t resist pinning this on Brady. “I don’t think, if he were to have an attack, you’d want me telling your bosses or the press, ‘We could have saved him, but Kim here wouldn’t let me on the boat.’”

“There’s really nothing I can do.” She pauses, thinking, then casts me a wide smile that makes me uneasy. “Why don’t you give the inhaler to the crew. Then”—she starts typing—“we’ve got one more boat out this morning to Prisoner’s Harbor on the other side of the island. It leaves in a half hour. It’s about a twelve-mile hike across the island. That way, we’ll get the inhaler there ASAP and get you to Scorp by nightfall.” I can tell she’s very pleased with this arrangement.

I’m about to argue that I’d really feel more comfortable delivering it myself when a horn blares. I turn to see the 10:30 a.m. boat puttering out of the harbor.

“Oh.” The smug expression on her face falls. “I guess that’s not going to work.”

“Isn’t there a boat to Scorpion Bay this afternoon?”

“All afternoon ferries only go from the island to Ventura.”

“Can’t I hop on with the crew when they go out to the island? They won’t even notice I’m there.” I take my fingers and mime to zip my mouth shut.

To her credit, Kim really does seem disappointed when she tells me, “Unfortunately, we only take passengers out in the morning. I’m afraid there are no exceptions.”

I could eat this girl for breakfast, but I can tell that tearing her a new one won’t get me on the afternoon boat. I nudge my card toward her. “Put me on the boat to . . . Prisoner’s Harbor, is it? I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

While Brady has my heavy-duty hiking boots, I can hike twelve miles in trail sneakers.

The girl keeps typing, and I watch as her face contorts from purpose to outright conflict. I know, even before she tells me, that the next boat is sold out too.

The panic that follows is real, not exaggerated, not performative. I need to get to the island, to take the reins on my plan, to protect my family.

“Look,” the girl says, her eyes full of the kind of pity that would normally piss me off. Right now, it makes me hopeful. “I’m not supposed to do this. I’ll put you first on the standby list. There’s usually a few no-shows. You were already one today. Wait at the dock. Once everyone’s on, the crew will take a head count and make sure there’s space for you.”

I stand at the edge of the ramp down to the dock, watching as one group of hikers after another hands their laminated green passes to the ticket girl. Kim practically guaranteed me a no-show, so I tell myself to chill. It’s all going to work out. I pull out my phone from my back pocket. The battery is down to 85 percent. Brady has my portable charger, along with my CamelBak, headlamp, extra socks, and energy bars. If I turn off my location, remember to check the time on my watch instead of my phone, and don’t waste the battery on pictures that will never capture the beauty of the island anyway, it should last me the hike. I text Brady, explaining that I had to take a boat to the other side of the island. I should be to the campground around five, definitely before nightfall. After a quick back-and-forth in my head, I decide he needs to know who I saw board the ferry.

Don’t confront him, I warn. Just be alert.

The texts send green instead of blue. He must still be in the middle of the ocean. He’ll get the message when he docks. He’ll have time to prepare.

The top deck of the boat is getting crowded, and the line waiting to board remains several groups deep.

“How’s it looking?” I ask the girl collecting tickets.

“There’re a hundred and forty-four seats on the boat. We’re at one seventeen. I think you’ll be fine.”

I scan the line. There are twenty-one people waiting. Six open spots. It sounds like a math problem I would make up for Sawyer. Don’t worry, sweetie, Mommy’s getting on this boat.