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And then—then—I see him.

He’s strolling up the sidewalk, his eyes hidden by sunglasses and the afternoon light glinting off his dark hair. He’s wearing flip-flops, swim trunks, and a white T-shirt with a picture of a surfboarding octopus. He is not hurrying. He in no way looks anxious or apologetic. He looks relaxed. Too relaxed.

How is it thatIcan have such high expectations, for myself and those around me, while Quint can be so… soQuint.I’ve even spent the last year lowering my expectations for him, bit by bit, and still he manages to disappoint. I’ve truly asked so little of him. Just show up on time so I don’t have to explain the assignment to you every single day. Just read the chapter from our textbook beforehand so you have a clue what we’re talking about. Just take a few notesor take accurate measurements or do something useful rather than putting it all on my shoulders.

Somehow, he failed. Again and again and again. And now this. To not only be late, but to be so casual about it.

I’m positively fuming when Quint spots me and smiles in greeting.

Smiles.

That! Jerk!

My hand clenches under the table, squeezing until I can feel the pulse of my own blood in my knuckles.

Quint pauses, his eye catching on something. Please, oh please, let a seagull swoop by and drop a big one right on his head.

Or let some kid plant a half-devoured chocolate ice cream cone right into that Hawaiian-printed butt of his. (Not that I’m thinking about his butt. Oh, gross, stop it, Brain!)

Or… or…gah, I don’t care, just something horrible!

As I watch, my hand aching and images of vengeance swirling through my head, Quint stoops down and picks something off the sidewalk. I squint, trying to see what it is.

Paper? Green paper?

Hold on. Did he just findmoney?

Quint walks up to a nearby shopkeeper who’s sweeping his front stoop and shows him the paper. The man shakes his head. Quint steps away, looks up and down the sidewalk, but there’s no one else to ask. No one to talk to. He gives the facial equivalent of a shrug, then starts heading toward me again.

My fist slowly relaxes. What is going on here?

“Look,” he says, sliding into the chair opposite me. “I just found twenty bucks.”

I gawk at the bill in his hand.What?

He holds it toward me. “We’ll call it our first anonymous donation.” He grins. “See? We’re making a good team already.”

My brain feels like it’s shutting down. I can’t process what just happened. I feel like the universe betrayed me. I take the twenty, a little dazed, and stare at it. Maybe it’s counterfeit, and he’ll get arrested if he uses it?

But, no. I know it’s real. I know that, for whatever reason, he just gotrewarded, after being nearly an hour and a half late to our meeting. Was that the universe’s doing, or just coincidence?

That would be an easy explanation, except I’m reaching a point where I’m not sure I believe in coincidences anymore.

I set the money down on the table between us.

“Wow,” I say, a little numbly. “Cool. I’ll… start a ledger.”

“Yeah. Or it can just pay for lunch. I’m starving.” He takes a tostone without asking, dips it in the chipotle sauce, and tosses it into his mouth. “Mm, so good,” he says. He doesn’t seem to notice that they’re cold. You know, because they’ve been sitting out formore than an hour.

“So,” I start, as my anger once again begins to boil. “You do know how to tell time, right? Like, you didn’t sleep through those lessons in elementary school?”

He lifts an eyebrow at me. Takes his time chewing. Finally swallows. He leans over the table. “Or,” he says, “you could try starting this conversation with something like, ‘Wow, Quint, you sure are late today. Did something happen?’”

My jaw tightens and I lean forward. “Oryoucould start with an apology. I’ve been here for an hour and a half. You think I didn’t have anything better to do with my time than wait for you? You couldn’t text, or—”

“I don’t have your number.”

I point toward the windows beside us. “You knew where we were meeting. You could have called the restaurant.”