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“I do hope it works out for your friend,” the woman says, looking honestly concerned. “It would be terrible to lose a family heirloom like that. But Clark is a reasonable guy. Maybe you can work something out.”

THIRTY

A purchaser of goods acquires only that which the seller has the power to transfer. The property still belongs to the legal owner.

This is what I’ve learned from a few quick Google searches. A piece of property still belongs to the legal owner, no matter who has bought or sold it since. Most of the articles I’ve found relate to stolen property that gets sold off to pawnshops. I know Maya’s earring wasn’tstolen,but the outcome is pretty much the same. She is still the legal owner of the earring. If she went to the pawnshop and asked for it back, they would be obligated to return it to her—especially if she presented evidence that it’sherearring. I figure that showing the earring’s mate would be evidence aplenty.

And this is what I’ve determined, regardless of the interference from the universe.

Maya’s transgression—the hurtful things she said about my brother—was not deserving of the punishment she received. I’m convinced that she wasn’ttryingto be mean that day (though I can’t say the same for her friends). And now she’s lost a cherished family heirloom. Regardless of its monetary value, I know that earring will always be more precious to Maya, and perhaps someday her children or grandchildren, than to anyone who might buy it from the pawnshop. Especially because anyone who buys a single earring is probably planning to take out the diamond and have it reset into a different piece of jewelry entirely.

At which point, the heirloom would be gone forever.

So. Maya should have the earring.

But.

No one else who’s become involved in this situation has done anything wrong.

The beachcomber didn’t do anything wrong when she found the earring or when she decided to sell it.

Clark, the pawnshop owner, didn’t do anything wrong when he paid twelve hundred dollars for it.

The rescue center didn’t do anything wrong when they received that money as a donation.

If I ask Rosa to give me the money so I can buy back the earring—it hurts the center.

If I tell Clark that Maya is the rightful owner, he’d be forced to give it back and he’d be out all that money—it hurts him and his business.

I could just tell Maya that I saw her earring at the pawnshop and lethergo get it back herself, but the only thing that solves is my avoiding an awkward interaction.

So what do I do?

Mulling it over has given me a headache, and for the first time since I realized the reality of this karmic power of mine, I’m mad at it. Why has the universe woven this complicated web and stuck me in the center?

It’s a conundrum I’ve been deliberating all morning, my brain struggling to find a solution in which no one gets hurt, stretching and straining and running in circles, while my hands have been busy sorting and rinsing bucket after bucket of fish. I didn’t realize until I’d arrived today that Quint wasn’t on the schedule. He doesn’t work until Wednesday, andIhave Wednesday off, and I am extremely uncomfortable with how disappointed this has made me.

Quint Erickson.

Who’s made my skin prickle with loathing for so many months. Who’s been the source of fathomless irritation. Who’s made my blood boil with anger. Who I have fantasized about strangling on more than one occasion.

Who isn’t at all what I thought.

It’s a problem, learning that I was wrong about him. Because if I don’t hate him, then suddenly there’s a big open spot where those feeling used to be and… well, that spot seems to be filling up with something else entirely.

Which is its own sort of terrifying. Despite the way we’ve grown comfortable in each other’s presence and the way he’s so quick to smile at me these days (although he smiles easily at everyone, I have to remind myself), despite all that, I don’t think Quint likes methatway. I don’t think he could. We’ve become friends, sort of, which makes me happy, in a way. But sad, too.

Fun-loving, easygoing, obnoxiously charming Quint Erickson—having a thing for Prudence the Prude?

Yeah. Right.

So, maybe it’s a good thing I’ve had the moral ethics of a lost earring to consider all day to keep my mind occupied. To keep it from strayingtoooften toward the topic of Quint. For down that path lies danger.

Finished with my food prep duties, I do a quick wipe-down of the kitchen before hanging up my apron. I start making my way down the corridor, peeking over the walls to check on the patients who haven’t yet been moved out into the yard. Almost half the pens are empty now. The busy season for bringing in newly stranded sea animals has ended and I’m told the center will empty out almost entirely between now and the winter, before breeding season in the spring leads to a slew of new patients. Rosa told me after the release celebration that this is actually a great time of year to be refocusing their efforts on fundraising campaigns and community outreach, when they aren’t quite as slammed.

Technically, with my work done for the day, I could go home. I haven’t been trained to help with the hands-on care of the animals yet, so there isn’t much else I can do. But I take my time, watching a harbor seal snooze on its blanket for a while and a volunteer clean an infected wound on one of the sea turtles. I see how many of the patients I can name without looking at their charts and am surprised to realize I recognize most of them. There are clear giveaways—such as wounds or scars left behind from various traumas and the geometrical markings we shave into their fur to help tell them apart. But there are other things, too. A unique collection of speckles on Junebug’s brow. The tawny coloring of Clover’s back. The way Galileo’s bark sounds like an amused chortle.

Then I come across a sea lion and freeze.