His name tag held a single black question mark. He tried to remember what it was supposed to say. Nothing came. The silence in his own head landed in his chest like a verdict.
Someone cleared his throat.
Standing on the other side of the counter was a lifeguard, but not just any lifeguard. It was him. Or rather, it was a ghost of him from some distant, terrible future. The man's face was his own, but aged, weathered, and sun-baked into a leathery mask of resignation. His eyes, his own eyes, were a dull, milky blue, fixed on him with an unnerving, patient emptiness. He was wearing the faded red tank suit of a bygone era, a relic from a black-and-white photograph.
A guardian with nothing left to guard. A protector with no purpose.
The ancient lifeguard, this withered version of himself, leaned forward, his wrinkled lips parting. His voice was the sound of dry sand skittering across pavement, a judgment from his own soul.
"Do you want fries with that?"
The question echoed in the vast, greasy emptiness of the restaurant. It was a cosmic demotion, a final, crushing humiliation. The ultimate protector, the man who saved lives, was now reduced to asking about potato side orders. It was a gut punch that was both hilarious and soul crushing.
Fly stared, mesmerized by the specter of his own obsolescence. “Do you want fries with that?” He didn't realize he'd said it out loud. It was a whisper, a puff of air lost in the wind and the splash of the paddles. But in the relative quiet of their own small world, it was a shout.
Vance's head snapped up, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated misery. "Yes, God, I'm starving," he rasped, his voice a raw croak.
Fly blinked. The ancient lifeguard dissolved. The smell of grease was replaced by the sharp, clean scent of salt. The counter was gone. He was back in the IBS, his muscles screaming, his hands raw, the cold Pacific a reality once more.
"You're always starving," Miller grunted from the other side of Fly, his paddle never missing a stroke. "I swear you have a completely separate person in your body who lives just to eat."
"I'll take everything on the menu," Chen chimed in, his eyes glazed over but focused on the imaginary restaurant. "Except the fish sandwich. I don't like fish."
O'Malley just stared blankly ahead, his paddle moving mechanically. "I don't want to go to work," he mumbled to no one in particular. "Just five more minutes."
Then Reyes, from the stern, let out a sudden, barking laugh that was completely unhinged. "I don't like Hispanic food."
Miller snorted, a sound of pure, exhausted disbelief. "Goddammit, Reyes. You're Hispanic."
Chen peered at him, narrowed his eyes. “Who’s going to tell Mrs. Reyes his son hates her cooking? Not me. Not volunteering.” He sat there for a moment. “Wait a second…does this mean it’s possible I hate Asian food? Holy shit.”
“Geezus, Chen,” Miller said. “Aren’t you Japanese?”
Vance nudged Miller. “He’s Chinese for fuck’s sake. You guys are all losing it.”
Reyes just blinked, a slow, deliberate motion. "Wait," he said, with all the conviction of a man who had just solved a complex philosophical puzzle. "I’m Hispanic?"
Miller said, “Keep up. That was at least ten years ago we were talking about your existential crisis.”
“Existential. Don’t use big words right now. I’m having trouble with the word crisis.”
Fly looked at the faces of his crew, at the exhaustion, the delirium, the sheer, absurd humor of it all. He had faced his own death, his own obsolescence, and his response had been to order fast food. His brothers, without missing a beat, had taken his order, argued about it, and then started a civil rights protest over it.
A slow grin spread across Fly's face, a real, genuine grin for the first time in days. He shook his head, picked up his paddle, and dug it into the water.
"All right, you bastards," he said, his voice clear and strong. "Paddle."
35
Blair’s cabin, Outskirts of Kamloops, British Columbia.
Two words and she was undone. Come here. She didn’t need to be told twice.
She moved toward him, her body aligning with his like magnets clicking into place. He met her halfway, mouth crashing into hers, hot and hungry, like the truth she’d just told him had torn something loose inside him.
His kiss was all shades of desperate.
Like he needed to taste everything she was. Like he wanted to burn the rest of the world away and crawl into her skin and just exist there for a while.
