“Great. We love novelty.”
She tapped the form with one finger.
“We’ll keep it simple today. Gear basics, breathing, hand signals, shallow water. If you hate it, we stop.”
“And if I’m amazing?”
“I take full credit.”
“What if I’m terrible?”
“Hank takes responsibility.”
From behind the counter, Hank said, “No.”
Ellie lowered her voice.
“He’s going through something.”
Hank continued repairing the fin strap.
“I can hear you.”
“I know.”
She handed me a folded wetsuit.
“Try this. It should fit.”
“Should?”
“Wetsuits are like exes. They lie about compatibility.”
I held it up.
It appeared to have been designed for a narrow child with no bones.
“I’m beginning to question your professionalism.”
“That’s fair. Wait until I teach you how not to drown. I’m much more convincing then.”
The changing room contained a bench, two hooks, and a faded poster of a sea turtle wearing sunglasses.
Beneath it, someone had written:
HE’S SEEN THINGS.
The wetsuit did fit, technically, in the way a jar lid fits if you force it hard enough and refuse to admit defeat.
I got one leg in.
Then the other.
Then became trapped at the hips.
For a full minute, I hopped around the changing room while trying to pull neoprene over parts of my body that had never previously objected to clothing.
The turtle watched without sympathy.
