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My heart stutters. It’sMorgan,Quint’s friend from the other night.

I drop my bike against a tree and prepare to race across the road to help her, but a car has pulled up to the curb and a woman is already running, cell phone in hand.Oh my god, are you okay? I’ll call an ambulance!

I swallow and take a step back. I still feel sick to my stomach. Cold sweat has beaded on the back of my neck and my bike helmet feels too heavy, too confining. I ignore the sensation and slide my leg over my bike seat.

I turn and pedal as fast as I can the other way.

THIRTEEN

I ride to a nearby park and drop my bike before collapsing onto a wooden bench. Ripping off my helmet, I press my forehead into my hands. I keep seeing it again and again—that moment when her foot slipped. When she lost purchase. When she cried out and fell.

I did that.Idid that.

I could have killed her.

It takes a long time to calm myself down. A long time before my heart stops palpitating and I can think rationally about what just happened.

It’s an even longer time before I convince myself that, no, of courseIdidn’t do that.

The punishments I’ve been doling out have not come from me. I may have thought that something should happen to all those people, but the universe has been deciding what those punishments should be.Inever would have made someone fall off a ladder, whether they were breaking the law or not. That was all the universe’s doing.

Besides, if anyone’s to blame, it’s Morgan herself. She put herself in danger by climbing up there. She probably didn’t think to secure it. Or maybe she’s naturally clumsy.

Besides, she must have deserved it. She was harming someone else through her actions. The livelihood of a local business owner. The beauty of our quaintcoastal town. Plus, she was so snotty when we met at Encanto, the way she wouldn’t stop staring at her phone, even when people were performing.

The universe knows what it’s doing. It has to. It’sthe universe.

Gradually, my hands stop shaking.

I know I’m trying to justify what happened, but what else can I do? I have to believe the universe has my back in this.

Finally, after a few mindful breaths in which I try to exhale all my negative energy, I climb back on my bike.

I’m closer to the rescue center than I realized, and the rest of the ride is merely coasting down a two-lane street lined with cypress trees and overgrown blackberry bushes. Not only do I not see anyone behaving badly, I don’t see anyone at all. This is a quiet road, one I don’t think I’ve ever been on. Far enough from Main Street and the beach to not attract tourists. I can see evidence of a handful of houses tucked back among the trees—farmsteads with chickens and goats and acreage.

I almost ride right past the center. At the last minute I squeeze the handbrake and drop my feet onto the pavement.

I don’t know what I’d been expecting until the building fails to meet those expectations. It’s suddenly clear why Quint didn’t bother to include any pictures of this real-world animal-saving “tourist” destination in the report. I guess I’d been picturing an aquarium. Something sleek and modern, with copious amounts of parking that could cater to busloads of kids arriving for school field trips. I was picturing an educational center, with plaques expounding on the delicate ecosystems in our oceans and how humans can help by drinking less bottled water and choosing to eat sustainably caught fish. I’ve been picturing great glass tanks full of tropical fish and the occasional chortling sea lion, or maybe even gigantic enclosures for whales and dolphins. And also a petting pool where you could slide your knuckle down the rough backs of starfish or let the urchins wrap their spiny needles around your finger.

I realize then, as I turn into the gravel parking lot, that I’ve been picturing the conservation center in Pixar’sFinding Dory. High-tech. Fancy. With educational messages from Sigourney Weaver piped through the speakers every couple of minutes.

Which might have been an unrealistic expectation. After all, if Fortuna Beach had an institution like that, I would have known about it before today.

But the reality of the Fortuna Beach Sea Animal Rescue Center is that… it’s small. And, on the outside at least, entirely unremarkable.

The stench of dead fish hits me before I’ve stopped pedaling. There’s no bike rack, so I set it against a stair rail near the entrance. I take off my helmet, hang it on the handlebar, and scan the small two-story building. It’s long but narrow, with a flat roof and concrete walls. Very industrial. Very utilitarian. Very unwelcoming. At least someone has made an attempt to brighten the facade with a coat of coral-colored paint.

Two white vans in the gravel parking lot have the name and phone number of the center printed on the side, encouraging people to call if they see a stranded or hurt animal. There’s a stack of crates against the fence, alongside a row of kennels, like something you’d see at the dog pound. A couple of temporary plastic storage sheds stand nearby, their doors padlocked shut. I can hear barking, and it takes me a moment to remember I’m not at a dog pound at all. It must be seals making the noise, or maybe sea lions.

For a moment, I wonder what I’m doing here. I have to write a report—abetterreport, something that will win over Mr. Chavez and his inane rules—and this morning I was convinced that this place was my ticket to doing just that. I would figure out Quint’s tie to the center and redo my portion of the presentation to align with the paper he wrote. If I play my cards right, I may even be able to submit the revised project without Mr. Chavez knowing that Quint wasn’t involved. Because… heisinvolved. In a roundabout way.

I think I can make it work.

I study the building again, my nose wrinkling as a new waft of spoiled seafood overtakes the first rush of salt and fish.

But I haven’t committed to anything yet. I’ll just go in and check it out, talk to them, figure out who Rosa Erickson is, and who she is to Quint, and glean whatever I can to use in my revised project. Then I’ll be out of here, nothing to it. As for what I’ll tell my parents about my new volunteer position… well, I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

I swipe on a coat of lipstick, smooth the creases from my shirt, and makemy way to the entrance—a faded yellow door with a mail slot near the bottom. I hesitate, wondering whether I should knock. It’s a place of business, but as far as I can tell, it isn’t open for the public to visit.