I circle Ordus, enjoying the clean water. I don’t know why we can’t live out here. I could have a coconut farm, and I’d never need to travel so far to get a snack. The water doesn’t taste yucky, and I can listen to the humans talk and play music and dance.
But all Ordus wants to do now is watch his boring human.
I huff, sigh, then huff again, staring at his tentacle, debating how fast I can run away if I bite it.
“I’m bored,” I declare.
He ignores me.
I snap at him, and then I dive down to the sand to sniff around for treasure before going back up.
Exploring the sea is no fun when we’ve been in the same place all morning.
His human’s seven legs—I can’t count—dangle over the edge of a board, and my ears perk up, my mouth watering. I’ve hunted her eighty-five times in the past twenty-one days. I deserve a reward after Ordus brought only nine coconuts back to the lair. Her nice, thick thigh bone will be good.
I swim up to Ordus. “Can I eat her?”
“No.”
I lick my lips. “A nibble? Please.”
“No,” he growls, showing me his teeth.
Ugh.“Okay.”
I wait for her to start flapping her arms in the water, and then I fly through a wave like I do back at the island. Eventually, her three legs come back into the water.
“What about now?” I ask.
Ordus’ arm snaps out, and I dart away before he can catch me. My tail moves fast as a light noon—or light thing? Or…lighter? What did I hear the human song say?
My head shakes. It doesn’t matter.
I am a lone creature. I do not need Ordus. If I want to eat a?—
Legs.
I sniff the water.
Legs that don’t belong to Ordus’ female. I scrunch my nose. Legs of a smelly human.
My tail slumps. A male with dirty feet. I suppose I must find another meal.
The creature moves to lie flat on his board to give me a clear view of the coconut painted on the bottom of his toy.
I’ve found lunch.
6
Cindi
The morning sun kisses every inch of my exposed skin and warms me to my core. The mildew and mist that hung in the air and on the grass is long gone, but everything is always crisp out here. I think I could live out here—in the ocean, where no one can find me. Maybe a secluded island with a house right along the beach where the water is at my fingertips, where the freshness of the salty breeze fills my lungs.
Most of all, pain doesn’t exist out here. My wrist isn’t aching. My fingers aren’t on fire. The slight throb in my neck is gone.
The waves gently rock me and my surfboard side to side, lulling me like I’m being swung in a cradle. With each sway, a little bit of my anxiety trickles into the water. Not enough to make me forget about last night’s panic attack or the alarm tripped in the late hours of the morning, but just enough for me to unclench my jaw and relax my shoulders.
Sorrow twists in my stomach at the memory of weekends spent with my father—his laughter echoing over the waves, his hands steady as he helped me onto a surfboard for the first time.I’d twisted my ankle that day, but he just grinned, nudging me back up, saying, “No pain, no gain.” Back then, I believed him.
