“Are you Savannah Brooks?”
Annie glanced at me, not for permission but to check whether the room required anything different from her.
“Yes.”
The girl’s eyes widened.
“Why are you working here?”
“I’m not qualified to call this working.”
I handed Annie the sizing chart.
“She’s helping with fins.”
Annie crouched beside the rack.
“What size shoe do you wear?”
The girl held up one foot as if visual inspection would provide the answer.
“Seven.”
Annie selected a pair, checked the label, and handed them over.
The girl tried them on.
“They fit.”
“I have concealed talents.”
The girl’s mother asked for a photograph. Annie agreed, took it near the front window, and then returned to the rental forms without turning the moment into anything larger.
At nine-thirty, Rachel texted to confirm she remained alive.
Annie sent her a photograph of Captain Pancake sitting on one foot, placed the phone facedown, and went back to checking forms.
One customer had signed on the wrong line.
Another had forgotten the emergency contact.
Annie found both.
“You’re alarmingly good at this,” I said.
“I have signed many contracts.”
“That is not the same skill.”
“I recognize an empty box.”
Hank passed behind us carrying two tanks.
“Can she stay?”
“She has a flight tomorrow.”
“I meant eventually.”
