No phones.
No tomorrow.
Just now.
When we surfaced, Hank looked at me.
“Well?”
I pushed my mask onto my forehead.
“I hated most of it.”
“Mm-hm.”
“When can I do it again?”
The corner of his mouth moved.
That was how Hank smiled.
I started helping at the shop in exchange for discounted lessons.
Then I took a weekend shift.
Then more.
Six months later, I had my instructor certification, a new apartment with less ambitious mold, and a job title that required no charts about blue.
On my first official morning, Hank handed me a Reef Rascal T-shirt and pointed toward a group of nervous tourists.
“Yours.”
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
“What if they panic?”
“Don’t let them.”
“That’s your training advice?”
“Breathe helps.”
Captain Pancake crossed the shop and sat on my foot.
I looked down at him.
“Am I hired?”
Hank drank his coffee.
“Dog says yes.”
Captain Pancake leaned against my leg.
Outside, the ocean moved beneath the morning sun.
