Kelp Forest

The research station smelled of wet neoprene and burnt toast. Samples lined every shelf in labelled jars, and a whiteboard by the door was covered in handwriting she recognised before she had even stepped inside.

Cal was standing at the bench with his back to her, peering into a microscope. He had cut his hair. It was the first thing she noticed and the least important, and she held on to it like a railing.

“The council said you needed someone for the kelp survey,” she said.

He did not turn around straight away. When he did, his face did something complicated, a whole conversation in a second, and then it settled into a polite, careful blankness that was worse than anything he could have said.

“They said they were sending a marine biologist.”

“They did.”

“They didn’t say it was you.”

“I asked them not to.” She set her bag down on the only clear corner of the bench. “I thought you might say no.”

He looked at her for a long moment. Outside, a gull landed on the windowsill, considered them both, and left. “The boat goes out at six,” Cal said finally. “Tide won’t wait for either of us.”

It was not forgiveness. It was not even close. But it was a boat, and a tide, and six o’clock, and Maren had learned a long time ago that on an island you took what the sea gave you.