I shake my head. “I usually won’t even bother to pick up a penny.”

“A lucky penny? Really?”

“It’s just a penny.”

He looks for a second like this is the saddest thing he’s ever heard. Like his disappointment in me cannot be properly expressed. But then his expression clears. “Probably for the best. Maybe the person who comes along after you really needed to find a lucky penny that day.”

“So a stray penny is a gift from the universe, but choosing to not pick it up is like … paying it forward?”

“Who are we to question the powers that be?”

I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

Ever since my fall at Encanto, I am the powers that be. It’s a heady thought.

“Anyway.” Quint reaches for the bag at my side and withdraws a large stack of flyers. “I was just coming to get more of these.” He uses his fingers to fan through them, like thumbing through a flip book, then smacks the papers against his palm. I think he might be stalling, thinking of something else to say. “But let me know when you get hungry. Those gyros smelled amazing.”

TWENTY-FIVE

I watch Quint walk away, weirdly mesmerized by the way the sun glints off his hair. My insides flutter.

Noooooo, my mind howls at me. Why is this happening? How is this happening?

I want to deny it. Oh, I desperately want to deny it.

But the evidence is right there in my traitorous little heart, which is still hiccuping from his presence.

Gosh darn it. I think I might be starting to like Quint Erickson.

I grimace. I am so annoyed with myself right now. To be crushing on lazy, irresponsible, goof-off Quint? It’s unfathomable!

Except … how much of that is true? I’ve seen him working at the center. He’s not lazy. He’s not irresponsible. He’s still relaxed and easygoing and fun. He’s still charming, friendly to everyone. He’s still quick to crack a joke.

But even if, by some bizarre twist of fate, it turns out that Quint is sort of my type … there is no way that I could possibly be his.

Do you ever think you might be too hard to please?

My stomach curdles. I don’t think he was trying to be mean when he said that, but still, remembering the words makes me ache.

I’m startled from my thoughts by a commotion down the beach. I turn, squinting into the sun.

A log has washed up on the shore and some kids have abandoned their boogie boards to gather around it. I hear a mom yelling—Don’t touch it! I frown. My feet carry me a few steps closer. A couple of adults are talking, pointing. Someone is cooing at the log, starry-eyed, like it’s … like it’s a …

An animal.

Like a helpless, frightened, friggin’ adorable animal that just washed ashore.

I start to run. I don’t know what I think I’m going to do, but Quint’s photographs are flashing through my memory like a reel of tragedy and trauma. In the weeks I’ve been working at the rescue center I’ve heard countless stories of how animals were found. Some of the stories seem implausible—like the time a seal clopped in through the back door of a local pub and was found hanging out in one of the booths the next morning—but most of the time, the animals wash up onto the beach, just like now. If they’re lucky, someone spots them and calls the rescue center. But sometimes people want to help. Sometimes they want to touch it.

Sometimes it doesn’t end well—for the animal or for the people.

“Get back!” I yell, my heels kicking up sand. My cry startles everyone who has gathered around the animal. A sea lion, I can see now. My breaths are ragged, but my mind is suddenly full with the sight of the creature. It’s just like Quint’s photos, and now I can tell the difference between an animal that is healthy and strong, and one that’s dehydrated and starving and probably on the brink of death. I think something might be wrong with its eyes. They seem cloudy and there’s some thick yellowish liquid beneath one. Its body is quivering as I approach.

“Is it dead?” asks a little girl, getting ready to prod it with a stick.

I snatch the stick out of her hand and she makes an outraged sound, but I ignore her. “I’m with the sea animal rescue center,” I say, pointing to the logo on my yellow shirt. Immediately, I have authority. I have the respect of everyone around. Suddenly, I’m the expert in this situation, and I can see relief in some of the parents’ eyes when they realize that someone else has assumed responsibility.

At which point, I freeze.

Now what do I do?

Quint, my mind eagerly supplies. Quint will know what to do.

My arms are still outstretched, standing in front of the sea lion like a protective … mama … lioness? Egad, I don’t even have the right vocabulary for this situation. Pureeing fish guts all day doesn’t lend itself to a full bank of knowledge about these animals, after all.

“Don’t touch him,” I say to the crowd, all the while scanning the beach for signs of Quint. But it’s so crowded. He could be anywhere.

“It’s a boy?” someone asks, to which someone else replies, “How can you tell?”

“I can’t—I don’t know. But I do know that, while these aren’t violent animals, they can lash out when they’re scared. Please, just back up. Give him some space.”

No one argues.

I spot a lifeguard stand, and I remember that part of the local lifeguard training involves knowing how to handle beached animals. Sometimes they even have kennels kept in their storage units for animals that need to be taken in for rehabilitation.

“You!” I point the stolen stick at the girl who had wanted to poke the sea lion with it. She jumps back a foot, her eyes wide. “You’re in charge. Keep everyone back at least ten feet, okay?”

Her expression brightens, then floods with a sense of duty. It’s the same expression Penny gets when she’s charged with an important task. The girl gives me a determined nod.

I hand the stick back to her and turn to her mom. “I’m going to see if that lifeguard can help us. Can you call the rescue center? They can send a truck to come get it.” I wait until she’s started to dial the number that’s printed on the back of my shirt before I take off running again. My legs are aching and my side starts to get a stitch, but soon I’m standing at the base of the lifeguard chair.

It’s empty.

“What the heck?” I roar. Are they even allowed to leave their posts? It takes another few seconds of scanning the beach, seconds that feel like hours, before I notice the signature white tank top and bright red shorts. The lifeguard is near the surf, yelling at a couple kids who have swum out past the buoys. I race over to him. “I need help!”

He looks up, startled, and I’m surprised to recognize a senior from school, though I don’t know his name. “There’s a beached sea lion,” I say, pointing. “It needs to be taken to the animal rescue center. Do you have a kennel?”

His eyes dart past me, but we can’t see the animal from where we are. The crowd around it has gotten too thick. I really hope that kid is doing a good job of keeping everyone at bay.

He looks back to check that the kids in the water have started swimming back toward the shore, then nods at me. “I’ll be right there. Don’t let anyone touch it.”

I scoff and point to the logo on my T-shirt again. “Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.”

The first thing I notice when I get back to the sea lion is that its eyes are closed. Terror crashes into me. Is it dead?

“I didn’t let anyone touch it,” the little girl says, still gripping the stick like a warrior.

“Here!” her mom shouts, shoving her cell phone under my nose. “They want to talk to you.”

I take the phone. Sweat is dripping down the back of my neck. I crouch down a couple of feet away from the sea lion, relieved when its eyes flicker open, still cloudy. It’s probably my imagination, but it feels like the animal is happy to see me again.

“Hello?” I say into the phone, my voice strained.

“Prudence?” It’s Rosa.

“Yeah. Hi. There’s a sea lion washed up on the beach, just north of—”

“I know, I know,” says Rosa. “Listen. There’s no way a recovery vehicle can get in there. With the traffic going into downtown right now, it would take hours.”

My heart squeezes. The sea lion has shut its eyes again.

I don’t think we have hours.

“What do I do?” I say, panic gripping me. Suddenly, this feels like the most important thing in my life. This creature. This helpless, innocent, hurting animal. I remember Quint telling me, maybe my third day at the center, that not all the creatures they bring in survive. About 10 percent die within the first twenty-four hours, already too far gone to be rehabilitated, no matter what they do.

But that isn’t an option. I have to save this one.

“If you can find something to transport it in,” Rosa says, “maybe someone there has a vehicle you can use. It would be a lot easier for you to get a car out of downtown than it would be for us to get to you.”

A commotion draws my attention upward and I see the lifeguard charging toward us, a large crate in hand.

“Prudence?” says Rosa.

“Okay,” I say, a ferocious new conviction filling me. “We’ll come to you.”

“We’ll be ready when you get here.”

I end the call and toss the phone back to the woman. She scrambles, barely catching it before it drops into the sand.

“Pru!” Quint barges through the crowd, his face flushed like he’s just run a mile. “I heard there’s a—” He freezes in his tracks, his attention landing on the sea lion. It takes him all of two seconds to assess the situation and before I know it, he’s taking charge, stealing my professional responsibilities with a few confident orders barked at the crowd. You, see that bucket there? Go fill it with water.