The answer came quickly.
Annie:Partly.
At least she did not pretend otherwise.
Me:Is it an apology?
The typing indicator appeared, vanished, then returned.
Annie:I’m not sure what it is yet.
That felt safer than certainty.
I sat in the office chair.
Hank finally left, although he carried Captain Pancake out slowly enough to communicate that both remained available for consultation.
Me:You can send it.
The file arrived almost at once.
VOICE MEMO 47 — DO NOT SEND
I smiled.
Me:Strong filename.
Annie:It survived forty-six worse decisions.
Another message followed.
Annie:You don’t need to listen now. You don’t need to answer. If sending it was unfair, delete it.
I put in one earbud.
Then removed it.
Listening in the office felt wrong. There were too many open doors and too much chance that Hank would come in looking for staples and find me having a private emotional event beside the waiver printer.
I saved the file and turned the phone facedown.
For the next three hours, I worked.
I checked tanks.
Answered emails.
Replaced a mouthpiece.
Explained to a man from Ohio that we could not guarantee he would see a shark, and yes, most guests found that reassuring.
The recording remained in my pocket.
I was aware of it while speaking to customers, loading gear, and eating half a sandwich over the sink because Rosa had sent Hank back with lunch and written my name across the paper bag in capital letters.
At four, the afternoon boat returned.
At five, I locked the shop.
