“No.”
“You think you’re pregnant?”
“No.”
“You think you’ve had heart surgery?”
“I’m confident about that one.”
Hank nodded.
“Good enough.”
Captain Pancake sighed without opening his eyes.
I was beginning to understand the company culture.
The back door swung open.
Ellie came in carrying two scuba tanks as though they contained helium and mild inconvenience instead of compressed air and the potential to crush a foot.
She wore black board shorts, a faded Reef Rascal T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, and her hair in a messy knot. Sunglasses rested on top of her head.
She looked less like a woman arriving at work and more like someone assembled from saltwater, caffeine, and bad ideas.
“Well, well,” she said, setting the tanks down. “If it isn’t Annie of the haunted table.”
“Good morning.”
“It is a good morning. My emotional property rights have been respected, nobody has asked me whether sharks can smell fear, and you appear to have survived the sandwich.”
“Mostly.”
Her gaze dropped to my white tank top.
“No yolk today.”
“I’m growing as a person.”
“I’m proud of you.”
“I appreciate your support during this difficult journey.”
Ellie took the clipboard from me and scanned the form.
For the first time since she had entered, her expression shifted into something more focused. Not cold. Not distant. Just professional in a way that made me sit a little straighter.
“No asthma. No ear problems. No medication that makes you dizzy.”
“No.”
“No history of panic attacks underwater.”
“I found that question oddly accusatory.”
“It’s only accusatory if you lie.”
“I’ve never had the opportunity.”
