“So,” he says, once we’ve finished our fifth bucket, “the healthier animals get the whole fish—those are the ones that have been here awhile and have more or less figured out the eating thing. But when they first get here, they’re usually so weak and dehydrated, they need some added assistance. Which means, step two: fish smoothies.”
I blanch. “Tell me that’s not what it sounds like.”
He grins and points to an industrial-size blender. “It’s exactly what it sounds like.”
It’s revolting is what it is. Quint and I spend the next forty minutes chopping the heads and tails off yet more fish, tossing them into a blender along with some corn syrup and Pedialyte, and watching it all turn into a goop of guts and scales and sharp little bones. The smell, impossibly, gets even worse. By the time we’re passing the last batch off to another volunteer, who will feed it to the recent rescues, I’m once again rethinking my conviction. This cannot be worth a good grade. Not an entire summer of this.
I’ll tell Dad it didn’t work out. I’ll find another way to research animal habitats and our sensitive ecosystems.
Quint wipes down the counter, giving me odd, knowing looks from the corner of his eye. “Ready for your lunch break?”
My stomach lurches at the thought of food. My distaste must be evident because he starts chuckling again as he throws the towel into a bin. I can tell he’s enjoying this, the torture he gets to inflict on me. “I actually can’t believe you’re still here.”
“I said I’d help, didn’t I?” It’s annoying, to think he can see right through me. How I’m dying to bolt for the exit the first chance I get. But I haven’t yet. Maybe to prove something to myself or my parents or even Mr. Chavez, though I can’t help but suspect that part of it might be wanting to prove something to Quint, too.
He’s still eyeing me, not trying to hide that he’s suspicious. Staring me down. Waiting for me to cave and admit that this is absolutely not what I signed up for. That I’ll be saying goodbye now, thanks.
I plant one hand on my hip, daring him to test my resolve.
“Well?” I say, breaking the silence. “What next? Do we bake them octopus pies? Maybe a crab cake?”
His cheek twitches. “Crab is too expensive. But they do like squid.”
I gag quietly. “Yum.”
“What, you’ve never had calamari? It’s delicious.”
“Everything is delicious when you deep-fry it.”
“Come on. If you haven’t been scared off yet, I suppose I should give you the grand tour.”
I have the feeling that this all might have been a test and, somewhat shockingly, I seem to have passed. We step out into the hallway, and Quint starts explaining the various rooms and workstations. This is where the animals are first inspected—vitals taken, blood drawn, checked for wounds. This is the surgery room. Laundry. Dishes. This is where the animals that are in critical condition are kept, the ones that need constant monitoring. Storage and admin offices upstairs, along with a break room and small kitchenette because, according to Quint, my appetite will return eventually. I’m not sure I believe him, but fine.
It’s all a little disconcerting given how civil he’s being. How civil I’m being.
And then it hits me.
We actually accomplished something together.
Sure, that accomplishment was nothing more than pureeing up a bunch of fish guts, but still, the fact that I only sometimes wanted to strangle him seems kind of huge.
All signs of Angry Quint have gone. He’s back to his old casual self. But—no. Not exactly like his old self, the Quint Erickson who’s driven me absolutely bonkers all year. It’s more like being with a Quint clone. I never, in a million years, would have pictured him working someplace like this. The beach, yes. On a surfboard, sure. Playing video games in his mom’s basement until he’s forty, oh, most definitely. But this is a side of Quint I didn’t know existed, that I never even considered a possibility.
But his confidence here, his knowledge, his ability to actually do what needs to be done. It’s unsettling.
And maddening.
Why couldn’t this guy have been my lab partner?
“Ready to meet some of the patients?” Quint asks, oblivious to my silent stewing.
I smile tightly. “Been waiting all day.”
We return to the long corridor. Most of the enclosures have three or four animals inside them, with the names of the patients written on a small whiteboard beside each gate, but Quint doesn’t need to look at them as we pass by. “We can get up to two hundred animals in a single season,” he says, “and it can be tough coming up with new names for them all, so we tend to put them in groups. Lately we’ve been on a superhero kick, so here we’ve got Peter Parker, Lois Lane, and Iron Man. Avenger and Hulk are out in the yard.”
“Does your mom come up with the names?”
“Naw, usually we let the rescue crew name them, or sometimes whoever found them and called us. People get really excited when they get to name the animal they found, and that can inspire a whole new slew of names. This year someone named an elephant seal Vin Diesel, which inspired an entire action-flick group—Bruce Willis, Lara Croft, James Bond … We also have a huge Harry Potter group going on right now, because one of the volunteers is a megafan. So far, we’ve got…” He inhales deeply and his eyes rise to the ceiling as he tries to count them all off. “Harry, Hagrid, Percy, George, Fred, Krum, Draco, McGonagall, Dumbledore, Tom Riddle”—he pauses to give me a secretive look and whispers—“he was always bullying the others. And…” He perks up and crouches down in front of one of the gates. A sad-looking animal is resting on its side, staring up at us with unblinking eyes. “Luna Lovegood.” He shakes his head. “You weren’t supposed to come back here. What happened?” He shakes his head. “Poor girl. You look terrible.”
I stare at the animal. I don’t think she looks that terrible. Just tired. And definitely skinnier than a lot of the others we’ve passed.
“She’s lost a lot of weight since we released her,” he says, as if reading my mind. He sighs. “Back to step one.”
“Will you try to release her again? After she gets better?”
“I don’t know.” He stands up. “Our goal is always to return them to the ocean, but if she can’t survive on her own…” He shrugs. “I guess we’ll see what Opal thinks.”
“Opal’s the vet?”
He nods. “Sorry, I guess I should introduce you to more people.” His expression is hesitant and I know he’s thinking it would be a waste of time. I know he still doesn’t expect me to come back.
But for the first time all day, I realize I’m actually not eager to escape. Fish guts aside, it’s actually been kind of interesting.
“So, the animals here, they all … what? Washed up on the beach? And someone called you?”
“Usually, yeah. People can tell something’s wrong. A lot of times it’s obvious stuff, like they have wounds from a shark bite or something, or maybe they’ve got a bunch of fishing line tangled around them.” Quint’s expression darkens. “One time we rescued a sea lion that had nineteen fishhooks caught in his skin.”
I shudder, remembering the photo in his report.
“That’s awful. Was he okay?”
“He made it. We released him a couple years ago. We named him Captain Hook.”
I laugh. “Was there also a Peter Pan?”
“No,” Quint says, in a tone that suggests this is a ridiculous thing to ask. But then he grins. “But we did have a Mr. Smee and a Tinker Bell.”
I fold my arms on top of the short wall that separates the enclosure from the walkway and peer down at Luna. “What are those markings on her side?”
“That’s how we tell them apart. It’s like a code. There’s a chart in the office that explains it, but pretty much every mark is a different number. We shave the fur, but it’s easier to make straight lines than curves, so they get a little V instead of the number five, and two dashes instead of a nine, that sort of thing”
Luna’s markings are two arrows, each pointing toward her head.
“How many volunteers are there?” I ask. “As opposed to staff.”
“There are only three people on staff. Mom, Shauna, and Opal—Dr. Jindal. Then we have…” He pauses, and I can tell he’s counting in his head. “Sixteen volunteers, including me and Morgan. My mom would love to hire more people, but money is…” He trails off. “I mean, we’re pretty reliant on government grants, which barely makes enough to keep the animals fed, much less pay a bunch of employees. But the volunteers are great. It’s kind of like a family, and everyone really cares about what we’re doing.” He pauses and looks at me, and I can see the hint of accusation there again: the what are you doing here? But it passes quickly. “I mean, look at those eyes. You can’t help but fall in love, right?”
I startle. My heart skips, and it takes me a second to realize he’s gesturing at Luna. Except, when I glance down, her eyes are closed. I think she might be sleeping.
“All right,” says Quint. “I need to get to work. I’m setting you free.”
“My, how generous,” I say, but I’m frowning. “But why not let me help you?”
He shakes his head. “I can do it faster on my own. We’ll continue your training tomorrow.” He gives me a sideways look as we start walking back toward the lobby. “That is, if you’re still planning on coming back. Because if this isn’t for you…”
“I’ll be here,” I say. Firmly. “And by the end of summer, we will submit one killer report to Mr. Chavez. That’s the deal, right?”
Quint’s jaw seems to tighten, but then he holds out his hand.
I swallow, but my hesitation is brief. I take his hand and we share a determined shake.