Oyster after oyster. After empty oyster.
He stared at the bucket filled with oysters as pearl less as he was. This was the South Seas, home of the most magnificent and valuable pearls that had ever been found. And not one bloody pearl in any of these oysters?
He swore and tossed the last oyster back in the bucket. Something small and white ricocheted out and pelted him in the arm. He dug around in the sand and found it.
One small milky pearl. He held it up to the sun. It was still frosty and light shone through it, meaning it wasn’t worth much, for in truth it was barely a pearl. Hank picked it up and tucked it in his pants’ pocket anyway.
“Whatchagot?” Theodore stood a few feet away. “Food.”
“Oh.” He rocked on his toes. “What kind of food?” “Oysters.”
“Oh.” He stepped closer and frowned into the bucket. “What are oysters?”
“Food.”
“What kind of food?”
Hank grinned. “Oysters.”
The kid giggled. “What are oysters?”
“Food.” Hank reached out and ruffled Theodore’s hair. “You’re getting it, kid!”
Theodore grinned back, then shifted his look to the bucket.
“Oysters are like mussels,” Hank explained.
“Yuk!” The kid wrinkled his nose. He leaned over farther and frowned at them, then looked up again. “Do they smoke?”
Hank started laughing. He stood and picked up the bucket. “No. That’s just the way Smitty cooks everything.” He paused, then he grinned and poked the kid in the arm. “Hey. Here’s a riddle for you. What should you do if you’re ever lost?”
The kid shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Just wait until suppertime. Look for the smoke, then follow it back home.”
“Like smoke signals!”
“Yeah, kid.” Hank chuckled. Now where was Smitty when he was being so damn witty?
But Theodore just stood there, his hands locked behind him. He stared at Hank from a face that had serious thoughts—too serious for a little kid.
Hank nudged him in the arm. “Why the long face?” He shrugged.
“I thought we were buddies.”
“We are.”
“Then spill it.”
“I heard Smitty say she was gonna learn to cook even if it killed her.”
She might take all of us with her, Hank thought, remembering the previous night when she had cooked the breadfruit so long it had actually disappeared.
“I don’t want Smitty to die like everyone else.”
“That’s just an expression. Cooking can’t really kill her.” Hank looked down at him for a second, then said, “As for dying? You have to face facts, kid. Nothing lives forever.”
“Why?”
