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“I usually do.” Dad hums along to the record playing over the store speakers as he puts the finishing touches on the basket. “I’m going to run home in a bit, grab some lunch. You need anything?”

“No. I’m fine.”

Fine, fine, fine. I’m always fine these days.

Grumbling, I stomp back behind the counter. Jude is standing in front of a box of records that were brought in yesterday. Dad has started letting him price the new stock, teaching him how to evaluate the condition and look up the market value. He’s holding a Motown record in his hands, but he’s watching me, concerned.

He’s been concerned ever since the Incident. He knows, more than anyone, how crushed I was. I still haven’t told anyone about me and Quint—what would be the point? But while my parents think I’m upset over being wrongly accused of something I didn’t do and then fired for it, Jude can tell there’s more to the story. I’ve walked in on him and Ari in the store’s back room a couple of times, talking in worried, hushed tones, and I know they were talking about me. I’ve done my best to ignore them.

At least they believed me when I told them I didn’t steal the money. Ari perhaps said it best—“You may be ambitious, Pru, but you’re not steal-money-from-a-struggling-nonprofit type of ambitious. Anyone can see that.”

Her words made me feel a tiny bit better. But it also made me wonder. If anyone could see that, then why couldn’t Quint?

Quint, who had been there the whole time. The beach festival, the cleanup party, the gala planning, the rescue center the night of that storm… He, more than anyone, should have seen how hard I was working to help those animals. He, of all people, should have known that I didn’t steal that money. That I wouldn’t.

But he hadn’t stood up for me. He hadn’t believed me. And not only that—he’d been mean, in the most ruthless way.

My eyes still sting when I remember the things he said. The words were intended to cut deep, and they did.

In less than two days, I’d experienced the best and worst moments of my life. Their memories are intertwined so tight I have trouble remembering one without the other.

“Want to do the stickers?” Jude asks, holding up the label maker.

“Nope.” I sit on the stool behind the cash machine. It’s been slow, even for a Tuesday, so I’m not too worried that a customer is going to ask me to ring up their purchase. Dad keeps trying to train me to work the register, but I’m not interested. I’m counting down the days until summer ends, when I can be free of the store. When I can immerse myself in homework and college planning and as many extra-credit assignments as I can sink my teeth into. I will distract myself like my life depends on it.

Until then—it’s just day after tedious day.

Dad gives Jude a hundred reminders about running the store before he leaves, even though he’s only going to be gone for half an hour. I ignore them both and boot up the laptop. The report is open, waiting for me. I read over the last sentence I wrote. Or tried to write.

Ecotourism can benefit many ocean habitats by

By… what? My brain is mush, as it has been every time I’ve tried to work on this awful paper. The thought of researching, taking notes, drawing conclusions, and implementing my findings makes me dizzy. It all feels like an insurmountable amount of work. The deadline for resubmitting our projects is only a few days away, but I’ve made painfully little progress. Every time I get stuck, I imagine talking to Quint about it and how we would come up with some brilliant solution together, and it would be easy and fun and—

And then I catch myself mid-daydream and plummet back to earth.

I don’t even know why I’m wasting my time. Without Quint’s participation, Mr. Chavez probably won’t even accept the revised report.

The worst part is I don’t even know if I care. About biology. About this report. About my grades. Any of it.

I procrastinate—again—by grabbing my phone and checking the rescue center’s Facebook page. It’s a form of self-torture I’ve become adept at lately. Quint has been doing a great job of keeping it updated and incorporating a lot of the strategies we talked about. Videos showing the sea lions at play. Photos of former patients, with captions describing their unique personalities and interesting stories about them. Interviews with the volunteers explaining why they’re passionate about working with sea animals.

Most of the photos on the page are taken by Quint—at least, I assumeso—because he’s hardly ever in the pictures himself. But every now and then there will be one where I can see him in the background. Hosing down a pool or feeding a bucket of fish to the seals, and the yearning that tugs at me upon seeing these grainy candid shots is overwhelming.

I know I should stop looking, but I can’t. No matter how much it hurts.

And, oh, it does hurt.

And then the hurt makes me angry.

And the anger makes me sad.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

How can the universe allow this? How can I sit here, betrayed and devastated, while Quint goes on with life as usual? Karma has abandoned me. There is no justice. There is no universal reprieve.

An update about Luna and Lennon catches my eye. I smile to see a short video of the two of them passing a ball back and forth with their noses. The caption spells Lennon’s name “Lenin,” like the dictator, which is how I know Quint wrote it. My heart twists.

Update: Lenin and Luna have been offered a permanent home at a respected zoo! We’re excited that they will be placed together, and be able to enjoy many more years of friendship (or something more?). We will post more info as their transfer date and details are confirmed.