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“I don’t think so.”

I duck back into the room and turn on the flashlight on my phone, too. It casts the small room in a faint white glow as I pull on the T-shirt and tie the towel skirtlike around my waist.

I grimace. I can secure the towel around my hips, but it leaves a gap across one thigh. I cannot go out there like this.

Then I remember that there’s a stack of blankets next to the washer. I take off the towel and grab a blanket instead. I feel better immediately, with the fabric more than covering my hips and falling all the way past my ankles. It smells like fish and seawater, given that it usually lives in the pens with the animals. Not all that long ago I would have been completely grossed out by this, but now I’m just grateful. Besides, I’m often the person doing the laundry at the end of the day, so I know the towels and blankets are regularly washed.

I grab my phone and open the door.

“Now what?” I ask, before realizing that Quint is holding my backpack.

He holds it out, gripping the handles. “You dropped this in the lobby,” he says. “I didn’t know if you needed it.”

“Thanks.” I take it from him, but he looks troubled.

“What’s wrong?”

He clears his throat and holds out something else. Two things, actually. A pale yellow envelope that’s been ripped open, and a white envelope, thick with dollar bills. “These spilled out.”

“Oh.” I swallow. “The money is for my parents…” I feel like I should say more. It’s weird to be carrying around all that money. But—I don’t want to tell him about the pawnshop. I don’t want him to know that my parents have resorted to selling off our possessions. I’ve done a good job not thinking about it all day today, but whenever it does crop up in my thoughts, my stomach twists. With worry. With guilt. I’ve spent my whole summer so focused on trying to help the center. Should I have been trying to help my own family instead?

In the end, I don’t tell Quint anything, just tuck the money back into mybag and zip it into one of the side pockets, which I probably should have done from the beginning. It’s really none of his business, anyway.

But I’m still holding the yellow envelope, and his eyes are on it, his brow tense. “My mom wrote a bunch of thank-you notes to some of our donors last month,” he says, “just like you suggested. I helped her put stamps on them…”

I know he’s telling me this to clue me in thatheknows what this is. Almost like he’s trying to get a confession out of me.

And maybe that’s reasonable. This wasn’t my mail to open, and it certainly wasn’t mine to keep.

I sigh. “Dr. Jindal dropped it the other day when she was bringing in the mail. I picked it up, and when I saw who it was addressed to…”

I flip it over so Quint can see Grace Livingstone’s name, and the post office stamp:DECEASED.

Understanding flickers across his features. “Maya’s grandma.”

“I know I shouldn’t have opened it, but…” I hesitate. But what, exactly? It seemed like theuniversewas trying to tell me something? I shake my head. “I shouldn’t have opened it. I’m sorry.”

Quint takes the card, and for a moment, he looks torn. But then a wisp of a smile crosses his face. “I would have been curious, too. I’ll tell Mom that I was the one who opened it, that I go to school with her granddaughter. I think she’ll understand.”

My heart expands. I wasn’t expecting that.

“Thanks,” I whisper.

A beat of silence passes between us, and then the energy shifts again. Quint smiles, easy and relaxed. “Are you hungry?” He juts his thumb toward the staircase. “I’ve got quarters for the vending machine. We could have Pringles by candlelight.”

“How romantic,” I say. “Except, I don’t think vending machines work during a power outage.”

He winces. “Damn. I bet you’re right. I don’t actually know if there are any candles, either.”

I shrug. “Let’s go find out.”

THIRTY-NINE

In the staff break room, we spend some time digging through the drawers jumbled with silverware, offices supplies, and random takeout menus that have probably been buried in here for the past decade. Ultimately, we find two boxes of birthday candles and a book of matches. Quint settles the candles into a decorative bowl full of sand and seashells and lights them. I’ve never seen birthday candles lit for longer than it takes to sing “Happy Birthday,” and I suspect they won’t last long, but for now, their glow is comforting and strangely joyful as the wind and rain rage outside. Plus, both of our phones are getting low on battery life, so we figure it’s best to conserve them as much as possible.

After digging through the cabinets, we pull together something like a picnic. An open bag of stale potato chips, some saltine crackers and peanut butter, a box of Cheerios, some marshmallows.

Even though I’d been joking before, as we settle in at the long conference table, it actuallydoesfeel romantic. The storm rattling against the windows. The glow of the candles.