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“We’ll advertise for them.”

“With what money?”

I throw up my hands. “Okay, I see what’s happening. This is a self-fulfilling prophecy. No one knows about the center, so they can’t support it. And if no one supports it, the center doesn’t make any money. And if the center doesn’t make any money, you can’t host events or advertise or do things that will inform even more people about the center!”

“Exactly.” Quint gestures at my notepad. “Luckily, we have Prudence Barnett on the case. You’re the ideas person. What are your ideas?”

“I’ve been trying to tell you about them for three days now, but every time I do, I either get shot down or coerced into water sports.”

Quint wrinkles his nose. “Snorkeling isn’t exactly a sport.”

I sigh. “You’re not being very much help.” I tap the end of my pen against my mouth, staring at all the ideas on the list. I won’t give him the satisfaction of saying itagain,but Quint might be right. Or, he at least makes a valid point,one that I’ve been warring with since the idea of raising money for the center first entered my mind. If there was money to spare, we’d have a lot more options.

I’m really beginning to understand the adage: You need money to make money.

Realizing that Quint has gone abnormally quiet, I glance up.

His gaze is fixated on… my lips? Is my lipstick smeared? I move a hand to my mouth, at the exact moment Quint realizes I’m looking at him and immediately turns his attention back down to the box of doughnuts. He picks out another—berry filling, powdered sugar—but cuts it in half this time rather than taking the whole thing. He takes a big bite, still not looking at me. A dusting of sugar sprinkles onto his yellow shirt.

I self-consciously lower my hand and tighten my grip on the pen. “Your… um… your mom said you’ve done fundraisers in the past. Do you know if they kept records for those? Maybe we can take a look, see what worked and what didn’t?”

He thinks about this while he chews.

“Shauna probably has something we can look at,” he says. “From what I remember, fundraisersdomake money, just… never enough. And we do have some long-term donors, people who write us big checks every year. But again…”

“It’s never enough,” I finish. “What do you do to cultivate those relationships?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, does your mom send handwritten thank-you notes to those people? Invite them for special tours of the center? Maybe we could letthemname some of the animals?”

Quint stares at me. “But those people are already giving us money.”

“Yeah, fornow.But those few things would barely cost any money to do, and it might keep you from losing a major source of income. There are a billion different charities out there. If something else snags their attention and they start to think their donations could make more of a difference elsewhere…”

Comprehension dawns in Quint’s eye. He grabs a pen and starts scribblingsomething in the corner of the paper. “I’ll mention it to Mom,” he says. “But it doesn’t really help with drumming up more money.”

“No, but it’s good to know that people who do become invested in the center tend to stick around. Having repeat donors means you won’t be starting at square one every year. So… how do we get people to donate in the first place, and how do we get them to care enough that they’ll want to keep helping?”

Quint says nothing. He finishes the doughnut and wipes his hand on a napkin.

“I really think we need to work the local angle,” I say. “I mean, if someone in Milwaukee wants to save sea animals, they’ll give their money to the World Wildlife Fund or something. They’re not going to bother with tiny little Fortuna Beach’s rescue center. But people who live here and visit here… they care. Or, they should. We need to establish the center as a part of the community.”

Quint crumples the napkin and tosses it into the trash can in the room’s far corner. He doesn’t say anything, and I have the distinct feeling he’s waiting for me to reveal some big, brilliant strategy. Which, I guess, is what I promised him. But while I’ve had lots of ideas, none of them seem like they’re enough. Like they have the potential to bring in enough donations that would make the time or money expense worthwhile.

My attention catches on a line of framed photos on the wall behind Quint. I’d noticed them before, but hadn’t really taken the time to look. My eyes narrow in thought.

Pushing my chair back, I stand and walk over to them. I feel Quint’s eyes on me as I study the first photo. My stomach lurches, but I force myself not to look away. The image shows a sea lion lying in a plastic kiddie pool, perhaps one of the ones I’ve seen down in the yard, with a blanket draped over its back. The flesh around its mouth is punctured through with so many fishhooks, it looks like it’s just been to a body-piercing convention. “That’s awful,” I whisper.

“That’s Captain Hook,” says Quint.

I move to the next photo. This one depicts an elephant seal on the beach, with fishing line entangled around his throat and one of his fins, cutting so deeply that it’s left a row of gashes. I’m a little proud of myself for being ableto tell this one’s a male, even though with elephant seals it’s really obvious, as only the males have the strange trunk-like snout that gives them their name. In my opinion, they’re the least-cute of all the animals we treat here, yet I can’t help but feel a tug in my heart to see the poor guy in such obvious pain.

The third photo shows what at first glance appears to be just a pile of litter on the beach—plastic bags and fishing nets. Only on closer inspection do I realize there’s a sea turtle entangled, nearly buried, beneath it all. My hand squeezes as I stare at it, and I wish I could punish the person who threw their garbage into the ocean or left it behind on the shore. But the universe stays quiet. I don’t feel the gentle swoop in the pit of my stomach, like I’ve felt when this bit of magic has worked before. After all, these animals were hurt a long time ago. That litter could have been thrown away weeks, months… even years before it didthis.

Then an idea hits me. I gasp and spin to face Quint. He must see something in my face, because he drops his feet to the floor and sits up straight, ready to listen.

“A beach cleanup!” I say. “Let’s host a beach cleanup.”