Across the top, Lexi had written:
THANK YOU FOR MY BEST BIRTHDAY
Inside, beneath a detailed drawing of Captain Pancake driving the boat, she had added:
MISS ELLIE, TELL ANNIE I AM NOT SCARED OF SCUBA ANYMORE. SHE WAS SCARED AND DID IT ANYWAY SO I CAN TOO. ALSO I KNOW SHE IS SAVANNAH BUT I LIKE ANNIE BETTER FOR DIVING.
At the bottom, in smaller writing:
MY MOM SAYS THAT IS NOT AN INSULT.
I read it twice.
Hank leaned against the doorframe.
“What does she say?”
“That you allowed a child to believe Captain Pancake operates the boat.”
“He has observed enough departures.”
“She also wants me to give Annie a message.”
Hank’s expression remained neutral.
He had become highly skilled at appearing uninterested in conversations he planned to remember in full.
“Are you going to?”
“I’m considering the jurisdictional issues.”
“It is addressed to you.”
“The message is for Annie.”
“That makes you the postal service.”
“I don’t work for the government.”
“You have a clipboard.”
“That is not a credential.”
I placed the card beside the computer.
My phone buzzed.
I checked it before deciding I had intended not to.
Annie.
May I send you something personal?
We had texted every day since the interview, although some exchanges consisted of one photograph, a comment, and both of us refusing to force the conversation into something larger.
She had sent hotel chairs, an airport carpet with a pattern aggressive enough to qualify as a visual threat, and Rachel holding three granola bars with the authority of a hospital nutritionist.
I had sent Captain Pancake sleeping inside a box of replacement hoses and one sunset that looked better on my screen than it had from the dock.
