Four
To me, the sea is a continual miracle; the fishes that swim, the rocks, the motion of the waves, the ships with men in them. What stranger miracles are there?
—Walt Whitman, poet
Scout strode purposefully toward the dock, her ranger hat angled just right to keep the bright morning sun out of her eyes, her mind already running through her Baker Island script. Even though she had it thoroughly memorized, it didn’t hurt to run through it each morning on the way to Bar Harbor Town Pier to meet the tour boat.
Frankie trailed behind her, looking as though he’d rather be anywhere else—eyes half closed, stifling a yawn after her barrage of early morning texts that had finally dragged him out of bed. “You really think I need seven text messages to get out of bed on time, Scout?” he said in a mumble, barely keeping up.
“I do,” she said, not breaking her stride. “Less doesn’t cut it, I’ve learned.”
“I’m not really a crack-of-dawn person. More like ... a crack-of-noon.”
“I need you sharp and alert. Your job is to make sure no onegoes overboard.” She lifted a finger in the air. “And to not leave anyone behind on the island. Especially me.”
“You should thank me for that. We’re going to be rich and famous because I had the good sense to forget you on the island.”
“Not rich. Not famous. That gold, if there is any, belongs to the NPS.”
Frankie let out a big yawn. “And if it’s NPS property, that means it belongs to the American people. And I’m one of them.”
Before she could correct his flawed thinking, her steps faltered, then stopped. Standing right by the gangplank that led to the tourist boat was Wabanaki Dana.
Naki.
Scout momentarily lost her bearings. Why was he here? He wasn’t supposed to be at the park until they returned. Yet there he was, staring out over the harbor.
“Whoa,” Frankie whispered, snapping out of his usual half-asleep haze. “That’s ... that’s him.”
“That’s him.” Scout’s heart was pounding a bit too fast. She felt a blush creep up her neck as she adjusted her hat.
“Aww, man!” Frankie’s starstruck awe was far less subtle. “He’s so dope.”
Too loud.
Naki must have heard him, because he swung around. His gaze swept from Frankie to Scout, his dark eyes so focused and piercing she could’ve sworn he could read her mind. If so, it would’ve been blank as a new canvas. All words had left her brain.
Scout cleared her throat, desperately trying to regain her composure. “Good morning, sir. Um, Mr., uh, Mr. Dana—”
“Call me Naki.”
“Right. Yes, of course.” Scout felt completely off-kilter.Tighten up, girl!“Sir, I’m sorry if there’s a little confusion. The boy and I—”
“Excuuuuse me.” Frankie scoffed. “I’m hardly a boy.”
Scout cut him a look. “We’re heading out now to Baker Island. We won’t be back for four or five hours.”
“No confusion,” Naki said. “I’m coming too.”
What? He’d be with them all day? He’d be listening to her ranger talk? The one she had memorized backward and forward and upside down but right now she couldn’t recall a single sentence of it? She stared at him dumbly. His fierce, angled face, sharp like granite, made her think of a warrior carved from the cliffs themselves.Lord help me, this man’s got me spun sideways.
“Should we go?” he said.
Scout blinked. “Right! Yes, sir. Absolutely.” She went up the gangplank, giving herself a talking-to.Come on, girl!
As the tourists came up on the boat, she and Frankie took turns greeting them, chatting a bit about where they’d come from. The Graysons from nearby Three Sisters Island owned Camp Kicking Moose and were taking a day with visiting friends—a family that had an ice cream shop on Cape Cod. Scout loved this part of her work. So many interesting people!
As long as she didn’t look into Naki’s eyes, she found she could think and act like a normal human being again. She could be Scout Johnson, interpretive ranger.
