Rolling my eyes, I say, “Did not.”
Before he can say “did too,” I put up the back-in-five-minutes sign and all but run to the back offices where the butterflies are waiting in the supply closet. Yanking the top off the Styrofoam container, I gather up the ice packs and toss them on the floor unceremoniously.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I say, staring at the one hundred extremely dormant butterflies that are meant to be flitting about in approximately twenty minutes on the beach. Grabbing my mobile out of my pocket, I Google “quickly thawing butterflies,” but the search proves fruitless.
Think, Brianna, think. You’re smart. You can come up with a way to fix this.
Lowering my face into the large white box, I blow hot air on the folded-up insects. “Come on, you little bastards, wake up.”
Leo’s idea of brewing tiny mugs of coffee comes to mind, causing a pang of regret. I consider asking him for help, remembering how good he is in a crisis, but my pride won’t let me.
I continue blowing out in long, hot bursts until I feel like I’m going to pass out. When I touch one of the butterflies, it still feels chilled, and none of them show signs of waking.
Now what?!
A blow-dryer! I snap my fingers and hurry over to the shelf where we keep spares.
I quickly search the closet for an outlet. No luck. I pop the lid on the box, put the blow-dryer on top, and haul arse to the staff room. Two minutes later, I’m blow-drying the butterflies, watching for signs of life. One of them begins to move, wiggling a bit before slowly peeling its wings away from its tiny body. “Come on, little guy. Let’s go!”
I glance at the clock and see that I’ve got under ten minutes. Not cool since it’s at least that long of a ride to the beach from here. I am so buggered.
“Never mind. Keep going,” I mutter, my words drowned out by the sound of the blow-dryer.
Leo’s voice startles me. “Oh, this isn’t good.”
He stands beside me, staring into the box from as far away as possible. “Weren’t these supposed to be flitting around on the beach by now?”
Thanks, Captain Obvious. Abandoning my pride for practicality, I say, “I’ve still got a few minutes. Go get more hair dryers from the closet and come help.”
He nods and hurries out, leaving me alone in what I hope won’t be a futile pursuit. A tiny piece of me is relieved to have Leo’s help, even though he’s turned out to be an awful, whining disappointment. Soon, he returns with three dryers, and the two of us set to work, standing close together while we heat the hell out of these monarch butterflies. The ones on the top layer are really moving now, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Leo gag. I tuck my lips in between my teeth to keep from laughing as he steps as far away as possible and turns his head away from the job at hand.
Shaking his head, he says, “I’m not sure this is such a good idea, Brianna. I think this much hot air is going be bad for them.”
“They can handle it! They live in hot climates!”
“The temperature change is going to be too fast for them. They’ll go into shock.”
“This isn’t like waking a sleepwalker. It won’t matter how fast we do this. Besides, we have no choice.”
One of the butterflies crawls around and then collapses, looking pretty dead.
“We’re killing them.” Leo pulls the plugs on his dryers. “Shut those off.”
“We can’t! We have to wake them upnow! Some of them will survive, and it’s not like anyone will be counting.”
“Good God, woman, this is turning you into a ruthless serial killer!”
I glare at him. “Yes, you can add ruthless to judgemental and hypocritical.”
“Oh, Christ! Do not make this about last night.”
“I’m not!Youare!”
Suddenly, three of the squirmy little creatures take off, freeing themselves into the staff room. One of them darts past Leo’s face, and he screeches like a little girl and ducks before sprinting to the garbage bin and vomiting.
Seriously?
A rush of sympathy flows through me as I watch him wretch. “It’s okay, they can’t hurt you,” I say.
