He goes dead serious for a millisecondbefore his boyish grin sneaks back.
They drag it onto the sand together, a soggy, cursed casserole of filth. The net spills its guts onto the sand. Seaweed. Plastic. And the hollowed-out husks of creatures who once swam.
Blaze jabs it with a stick, nose wrinkling. “BRO, this reeks like Poseidon took a dump in here. But also, what if there’s buried treasure?”
Cole drops low for a close-up shot. He reaches into the debris with his bare hand and lifts a dripping rope of seaweed towardthe lens. A cracked shell. A strip of plastic. A sludge-coated little mesh wad packed with bait rot and dead crustacean bits.
“Hartwell. Gloves.”
“Shit.”
The word cracks in my ear.
“What?!”
“Cut myself.”
“Okay, I’m bringing you a first aid kit. We have to set a good example.”
“Not happening.”
“I wasn’t asking.”
“It’s a scratch.” His voice goes tight, stubborn. “I’ve bled more from paper.”
“That’s not paper, it’s a biohazard buffet.”
“I said I’m fine, Ivy. Let me do my damn job.”
Sienna brushes sand off her hands and faces the camera. “This section is torn, which means the rest of the net is likely still out there.”
“NOT TODAY, EVIL SEA TRASH!” Blaze spins back toward the waves, finger pointing. “Poseidon sees all! What you’re doing is NOT okay!”
He charges back into the surf.
“Blaze!” Sienna splashes in after him. “Pieces can turn up hundreds, sometimes thousands, of miles apart.”
“SWEET! I won’t rest ’till I find them all!”
Sienna addresses the audience, “Guys, this isnota game. We are recovering deadly debris.”
On my screen, Cole swings the camera hard right, then yanks it left, tracking Blaze through the surf.
“Your angle’s off,” I say into my headset.
“No kidding,” he says, clipped.
Blaze whoops, wading deeper until the water hits his waist. He spins in slow, dramatic circles.
“Cole,” I say, sharper this time, “your horizon took a nosedive. Stabilize the shot.”
“Maybe you should tell the ocean to hold still,” he mutters, clearing his throat.
His breath, all huffing and annoyed, hits my ear. As if I’m the problem.
“Plant your feet.”
“I’ve got it,” he grits out. “Trust me.”
