He nods thoughtfully, squinting at the water like he expects to see a dorsal fin rise from it. “Still. You’re not even alittlebit nervous?”
I shrug. “Once you learn something’s behavior, it’s hard to be scared of it. I think, for the most part, we tend to fear the things we can’t understand."
He pauses, fork mid-air. “That was weirdly profound.”
I grin. “Thanks. I’ll be here all week.”
He taps his chin. “Okay, real question: if youhadto lose a toe, which one would it be?”
I laugh. “What is wrong with you?”
“I’m just saying. You’ve got ten. One of them has to go.”
I glance down, wiggling my toes as if they’re auditioning for survival. “The second one, maybe. The index toe. Least useful. Big toe’s critical for balance. Pinky’s got stabilizing function. The middle ones are just… filler.”
“Strong logic,” he says, nodding solemnly.
At the front of the boat, the dive assistant is chatting with another student, one hand on my tank, the other gesturing mid-story. I’mwatching him absentmindedly, but my mind is still halfway underwater.
It’s funny. We’re trained not to anthropomorphize marine species—don’t touch, don’t interfere, don’t assign emotion where instinct lives. But it’s hard not to feel the pull of the water as something more than physical. Down there, everything makes sense. Cause and effect. Adaptation and survival. Out here, with dangling feet and hypothetical toe loss, it all feels just a little more precarious.
About half an hour later, the boat slows near the mouth of the Crown, the swell gentle but steady beneath us. We’re going back in—just a small group this time, returning to grab the last of the samples. I finish the last check on my wetsuit as the dive assistant approaches with my gear.
He swings the tank into place and helps settle the pack on my back. His hands move automatically, tightening the straps, but he pauses for a second, his brow furrowing.
“Everything okay?” I ask, trying to glance over my shoulder toward the part he’s adjusting.
He looks up and flashes a polite smile. “Yeah, all good,” he says, then moves on to help the next student.
I hesitate. It’s just a moment—barely a blink—but something nags at me. I consider double-checking the gear, but I don’t want to seem distrustful, especially not when he’s been handling tanks all week without issue. So instead, I tighten the shoulder straps once more myself, buckle my weight belt, and slide the regulator into place.
I give the guide a thumbs-up, then catch Holden’s eye and nod. He’s already at the surface, mask on, eyes sharp as ever. I steady my mask with one hand, the gear with the other, and roll backwardoff the boat in a practiced motion, the water rushing up around me in a familiar hush.
Only three of us are in for this round, plus Holden. It’s meant to be short. Controlled. Shallow water. Simple.
At least, that’s the plan.
I drop down and move closer to a patch of hard coral that’s thriving here, careful not to disturb the parrotfish grazing along its surface, and start taking measurements.
I work methodically, slow and deliberate, making sure to cover the entire grid assigned to me. We won’t be coming back to this section, and the thought of leaving a gap in the data makes my chest tighten more than the exertion does. Somewhere along the line, though, I drift into a stronger band of current.
It’s fine, I tell myself. It’s been like this all morning—annoying, exhausting, but manageable.
I angle my body and kick sideways, working against it with movements that feel heavier than they should. My legs burn, my arms protest, but eventually the pull eases and I manage to drift out of the worst of it. I pause there, hovering, forcing myself to slow my breathing before returning to the grid.
When I look up, Holden is a few meters away, suspended in the water, watching me. He pinches his thumb and index finger together in a silent check-in.
I start to nod?—
and then I hear it.
A sharp metallic clink, followed by a dull pop, distorted enough that my first thought is that it’s someone else’s gear. Sound travelsstrangely underwater; distance lies. I twist slightly, trying to locate it.
That’s when the bubbles erupt.
They pour up behind me in a violent stream, far too many, far too fast, and suddenly my next breath meets resistance. Not empty—just wrong. Thin. Incomplete.
My heart slams.
