“This one’s a fighter,” Silvia says, nodding toward a large pool where a sea turtle with a scarred shell glides gracefully through the water. “Got tangled in a fishing net. She’s been with us for six months. We’re hoping to release her by the end of the year.”
I watch the turtle—moving with this scarred but unbroken grace—and I feel deeply connected. It will forever carry the marks of the struggle on her shell, yet with every stubborn stroke in the water, it makes a silent, unwavering vow to the open ocean. And to herself.
This place is a living proof that second chances are real. What has been broken can heal and bounce back. The will to survive always finds its way back to the ocean.
“She’s amazing,” I whisper, my heart full.
“Oh, she totally is.” Suddenly, a masculine voice—super chill, with that confident warmth you only hear in people who talk to animals for a living—joins our conversation.
I turn to see a man in khaki shorts and a blue polo with the rescue center’s logo slapped across the chest. The sun-bleached, blond-haired hunk with ocean-blue eyes and a tan I absolutely envy is looking at the turtle… but the smile? That’s 100% for Silvia.
“Ben, hi!” Silvia’s face lights up. She’s blushing, and it’s adorable. “This is Della, my bestie. Della, this is Dr. Ben Carter, turtle savior extraordinaire.”
Dr. Ken Doll, I think, suppressing a laugh.
“Nice to meet you, Della,” Ben says, his handshake firm and warm. “Silvia’s told me about you.”
“Nice to meet you, Ben! Congratulations for your work!” I toss back.
“Thank you!” His gaze shifts back to Silvia. There’re enough sparks in the air between them to blackout half the city. “Still up for that Torrey Pines hike on Saturday?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Silvia replies, her voice soft and floaty.
He gives her one last smile before a colleague calls his name and he heads out. “Gotta run. See you Saturday, Sil.”
As he walks away, I turn to Silvia, my eyebrows raised in a teasing arch but she suddenly became very interested in another tank.
“So,” I begin, with an amused voice, “Dr. Ken Doll’s the real reason you’re so hyped about rescuing marine life, huh?”
Silvia goes tomato-red and gives me a shove that’s more giggle than threat.
“Oh my god, shut up! He’s just… we’re friends.”
“A friend you’re hiking with and turn the color of firetrucks when he smiles at you,” I shoot back, cracking up as she tries—and fails—to pull off her ‘offended’ face.
She huffs out a sigh, but there’s this goofy, can’t-hide-it smile spreading.
“Okay, fine! He’s nice, alright? But… we’re just getting to know each other.”
“I’m really happy for you, Silvia.” I say, pulling her into a big hug.
Seeing her so bright, so full of potential joy, feels like another ray of sunshine in a day that is, against all odds, becoming one of the most peaceful I have had in years.
* * *
Dorian
The cabin of the Gulfstream is a gilded cage. The buttery leather of the seats, the gleaming wood grain of the tables, the quiet hum of the auxiliary power—it’s all a mockery of the power I’m supposed to have. Every luxurious detail feels like a weight, pinning me to the tarmac while the world, whileherworld, spins on without me.
Two hours. Two stolen hours.
We’ve been grounded on this runway. Could have been half way to her by now.
I snarl into my phone, "I don't give a damn about Nebraska’s weather, all right?" My voice is low, but there’s this earthquake under the surface. The primal scream building in my chest threatens to break free.
I stalk from one end of the cabin to the other, the city of Chicago a useless blur outside the window. "Reroute. Bypass it. Find a way or carve one. I’ll pay whatever—fee, fine, bribe. Just get this thing in the air."
David watches me from his seat, swirling his scotch, playing statue. I hate that he’s so calm, but God, I need it too. He doesn’t say a word, just lets the ice clink around.
