I self-consciously lower my hand and tighten my grip on the pen. “Your … um … your mom said you’ve done fundraisers in the past. Do you know if they kept records for those? Maybe we can take a look, see what worked and what didn’t?”

He thinks about this while he chews.

“Shauna probably has something we can look at,” he says. “From what I remember, fundraisers do make money, just … never enough. And we do have some long-term donors, people who write us big checks every year. But again…”

“It’s never enough,” I finish. “What do you do to cultivate those relationships?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, does your mom send handwritten thank-you notes to those people? Invite them for special tours of the center? Maybe we could let them name some of the animals?”

Quint stares at me. “But those people are already giving us money.”

“Yeah, for now. But those few things would barely cost any money to do, and it might keep you from losing a major source of income. There are a billion different charities out there. If something else snags their attention and they start to think their donations could make more of a difference elsewhere…”

Comprehension dawns in Quint’s eye. He grabs a pen and starts scribbling something in the corner of the paper. “I’ll mention it to Mom,” he says. “But it doesn’t really help with drumming up more money.”

“No, but it’s good to know that people who do become invested in the center tend to stick around. Having repeat donors means you won’t be starting at square one every year. So … how do we get people to donate in the first place, and how do we get them to care enough that they’ll want to keep helping?”

Quint says nothing. He finishes the doughnut and wipes his hand on a napkin.

“I really think we need to work the local angle,” I say. “I mean, if someone in Milwaukee wants to save sea animals, they’ll give their money to the World Wildlife Fund or something. They’re not going to bother with tiny little Fortuna Beach’s rescue center. But people who live here and visit here … they care. Or, they should. We need to establish the center as a part of the community.”

Quint crumples the napkin and tosses it into the trash can in the room’s far corner. He doesn’t say anything, and I have the distinct feeling he’s waiting for me to reveal some big, brilliant strategy. Which, I guess, is what I promised him. But while I’ve had lots of ideas, none of them seem like they’re enough. Like they have the potential to bring in enough donations that would make the time or money expense worthwhile.

My attention catches on a line of framed photos on the wall behind Quint. I’d noticed them before, but hadn’t really taken the time to look. My eyes narrow in thought.

Pushing my chair back, I stand and walk over to them. I feel Quint’s eyes on me as I study the first photo. My stomach lurches, but I force myself not to look away. The image shows a sea lion lying in a plastic kiddie pool, perhaps one of the ones I’ve seen down in the yard, with a blanket draped over its back. The flesh around its mouth is punctured through with so many fishhooks, it looks like it’s just been to a body-piercing convention. “That’s awful,” I whisper.

“That’s Captain Hook,” says Quint.

I move to the next photo. This one depicts an elephant seal on the beach, with fishing line entangled around his throat and one of his fins, cutting so deeply that it’s left a row of gashes. I’m a little proud of myself for being able to tell this one’s a male, even though with elephant seals it’s really obvious, as only the males have the strange trunk-like snout that gives them their name. In my opinion, they’re the least-cute of all the animals we treat here, yet I can’t help but feel a tug in my heart to see the poor guy in such obvious pain.

The third photo shows what at first glance appears to be just a pile of litter on the beach—plastic bags and fishing nets. Only on closer inspection do I realize there’s a sea turtle entangled, nearly buried, beneath it all. My hand squeezes as I stare at it, and I wish I could punish the person who threw their garbage into the ocean or left it behind on the shore. But the universe stays quiet. I don’t feel the gentle swoop in the pit of my stomach, like I’ve felt when this bit of magic has worked before. After all, these animals were hurt a long time ago. That litter could have been thrown away weeks, months … even years before it did this.

Then an idea hits me. I gasp and spin to face Quint. He must see something in my face, because he drops his feet to the floor and sits up straight, ready to listen.

“A beach cleanup!” I say. “Let’s host a beach cleanup.”

TWENTY-THREE

Rather than being overcome with sudden inspiration like I am, Quint looks skeptical. “You want people to come pick up garbage?”

“Yes! Remember? People want to be a part of the solution, but first you have to show them an easy and convenient way to do it.”

“How very generous of them,” he deadpans.

“I’m serious.” I smack Quint on the shoulder and drop into the chair beside him. Reaching across the table, I grab my notebook and pull it toward me. At the top of a blank page, I write “Beach Cleanup.” “Most people have good intentions, they just lack initiative. If you make it seem fun and easy, and make sure there’s something in it for them, you can get people to do pretty much anything.”

Quint ticks off his fingers. “One: That’s a really pessimistic view of humanity. Two: We have nothing to offer people because, again, no money. And three: How, exactly, is a beach cleanup supposed to generate money for the center? Because … see number two.”

I ignore him. My mind is sprinting, racing a hundred miles per hour. I’m already jotting notes as ideas and possibilities rush through me. Quint leans forward, reading over my shoulder.

“We don’t need to offer them something of monetary value,” I say, once my initial burst of inspiration has waned. “If we make it seem like a big deal, like something everyone will be doing, then people will come for the peer pressure alone. After all, you don’t want to be the only person in the community not showing up to help. A lot can be said for public shaming.”

“Again: pessimistic view of humanity.”

“But there are other ways to reward people, too. Maybe we can get sponsors from the local shops. Like … everyone who fills a trash bag will get a free ice cream cone from the Salty Cow, stuff like that.”

Quint grunts, and though he doesn’t say it out loud, I can tell he thinks this actually has potential.

“And as far as raising money for the center, we’ll have a donation jar set out for people who want to donate, but that’s not the primary goal here. This is community outreach. After all, I’ve lived here my whole life, but when you brought up the center, I thought it was something you were making up. So right now, we need to focus on getting the word out. Who we are, what we do … Maybe encourage people to come volunteer once in a while? We’ll have a table with a sign-up sheet where people can get on the mailing list.”

“We don’t have a mailing list.”

“Oh, but we will.” I wink at him. He looks momentarily startled, but I’ve already returned my attention to the page. “But none of that makes any difference if we can’t get people to show up. We’re going to have to offer more than free ice cream if we want them to give up a few precious hours of their weekend.”

“Agreed.”

My excitement is boiling over so quickly I have to bite my lip. Quint gives me a curious look and a part of me wants to keep him in suspense, but the idea is so good, so brilliant.

I scoot my chair back so I can face him full-on. Sensing that I’m building up to something big, he turns his body toward me, too.

“How often are we releasing animals back into the ocean right now?”

He thinks about it and shrugs. “We had a release almost two weeks ago. We’ll probably be ready to let Pepper and Tyrion go in another few days…” He trails off. His eyes widen. “Oh my god, Prudence. That’s genius.”

I’m beaming. “We tell people that they’ll be able to come and witness the release of some of these adorable animals back to the ocean. We’ll make it into a huge celebration. People will be lining up to see that.”

“You’re right,” says Quint. “I’ve probably been to hundreds of releases since I was a kid, but they never get old.”

I’m surprised that it gives me a happy shiver to think of being there when some of the animals from downstairs get to go back to the water.

Quint snaps his fingers. “The festival.”

“What?”

“The Freedom Festival for Fourth of July. It’s a week from Saturday, and the beach is always a wreck afterward, so we should do this on Sunday. There’ll be tons of garbage to clean up, and we can sell it as, like, we have these animals that are ready to go back to the ocean, but we can’t possibly set them free with all this garbage everywhere. So we all work together to clean up the beach, and when we’re done, we celebrate with the big release.”

I’m grinning at him. “It’s perfect. We can advertise it at the festival. We could even make a play on the name. Something like, ‘This Independence Day, don’t just celebrate your freedom … celebrate theirs,’ with a picture of the animals we’ll be releasing. We can have flyers and posters and things made up for the festival.”

“I love it.” Quint holds up a hand for a high five, but when I slap my palm against his, he closes his fingers around mine and gives them a squeeze. My heart skips. “Good brainstorming session.”

I laugh. “Go team.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners, and I know he’s thinking about all our failed lab assignments. I know, because I’m thinking about them, too, and wondering if it’s possible I just didn’t give us—the team us—a chance.