“Move.”
I moved.
We slipped behind the soap tent, crossed an alley, and emerged beside a bait shop where no one appeared interested in anything except shrimp.
Ellie did not let go of my hand.
Not yet.
We walked quickly toward Reef Rascal.
Behind us, voices called my name, but they were fading.
My phone began vibrating inside my bag.
Then ringing.
Then vibrating again.
Rachel.
Sophie.
Possibly every person who had ever warned me not to rely on a golf hat for security.
We turned a corner.
Ellie released my hand.
The loss was immediate.
“You okay?” she asked.
It was the same question she had asked underwater.
The circumstances were less peaceful.
“Yes.”
She looked at me.
“No.”
I pulled out my phone.
Twelve messages.
Four missed calls.
One entertainment alert.
Ten minutes earlier, no one knew where I was.
The internet was efficient.
The alert showed a photograph taken from across the market.
The image was blurry, but it was me.
