“Oh, bummer,” says Quint. He knows—we all know—how unlikely something like that would be to turn up. The sand on the beach shifts every day. Something as small as an earring could be lost and gone within hours, swept out to sea or buried for the rest of time.

But … something tells me that didn’t happen to Maya’s earring. Though I can’t know it for sure, I have a feeling that her earring was picked up by that beachcomber I saw yesterday. I didn’t get a good look at the jewelry she found, but I do recall how it glinted in the sun.

I bunch up the tape and toss it toward one of the garbage cans outside the tent.

It ricochets off the side and lands in the sand.

I huff.

At least it’s a good excuse to keep from looking at Maya. I know I have guilt written across my face, even if … I mean, I didn’t actually do anything. It was all the universe. Punishments and rewards. Karma.

“I’m really sorry,” says Quint. “I don’t think anyone’s turned in anything like that. Hey, Prudence?”

I freeze in the middle of picking up the tape.

“Has anyone turned in an earring?”

“Like this,” Maya adds, forcing me to make eye contact with her. She has a small box in her hand and inside is a single drop earring. Delicate gold filigree surrounds a solitary diamond. A big diamond. Bigger than the stone on my mom’s wedding ring.

The thing that strikes me about the earring, though, is its back. It’s the sort of earring that has a levered back that snaps up against the hook, closing the loop to prevent the earring from falling out.

I have a pair of earrings like that, and I know that unless that lever piece breaks, they’re practically impossible to lose.

Unless karma wills it so.

“Um, no,” I stammer, with an apologetic smile. “I haven’t seen anything like that.”

“I can let the volunteers know to keep an eye out for it,” says Quint. “Where were you when you lost it?”

“Right over there, by the cliffs,” says Maya. “Please let me know if someone finds it. These earrings belonged to my grandma. They were…” She pauses, and my shoulders tense. Emotion is filling her voice when she continues. “She passed away last year, and they were the last thing she gave to me, and … I just … I’ve been out here almost every day since the party, searching…”

Raw guilt scratches at the inside of my throat.

But I didn’t do anything wrong. Her losing that earring was her fault. It was retribution from the universe!

“I mean, I still have one. So that’s something,” says Maya with a weak smile. “But it’s not the same.”

“I’m really sorry,” says Quint. “I’ll let you know if anything turns up.”

“Thanks, Quint.” She pauses, looking from him to me. “Also … to see the two of you working together and, apparently, not contemplating murder is really bizarre. I feel like I just stepped into the Twilight Zone.”

Quint chuckles as he glances at me. “Yeah. Us too.”

“Well, it’s inspirational,” says Maya. Then, to my surprise, she takes one of the tote bags. “I guess I’ll go do my part, then?”

She heads up the beach, in the direction of the cliffs. I stare after her just long enough to see her stoop and pick up a blue flyer and cram it into the bag.

“Man,” says Quint. “That’s gotta be awful, to lose something that sentimental. My grandpa gave me an old baseball, signed by the entire team of the LA Dodgers in 1965. If something ever happened to it, I’d be wrecked.”

I take in a deep breath to try and clear the weight from my chest. “Yeah. Awful.”

“Excuse me, are you Prudence Barnett?” I swivel around to see a man in jeans and a blue Fortuna Beach sweatshirt. A large camera hangs around his neck.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Hi, I’m Jason Nguyen with the Chronicle. We spoke on the phone last night.”

“Oh yes! Hi! Thank you for coming.”

“Wouldn’t miss it. This is a great event. I’d love to do a follow-up story to run in tomorrow’s paper. Maybe also a longer piece about the center for next Sunday. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Oh, wow. That’s wonderful. Yes, of course, but—” I glance at Quint, who looks amazed that our little event has garnered the attention of an actual journalist. “It probably makes more sense for you to talk to Quint here. His mom founded the center and he’s been volunteering there a lot longer than I have. Plus, if you need some supplementary photos for the pieces, he could show you some truly amazing ones.”

Quint’s awe fades, replaced with embarrassment.

“That would be perfect,” says the journalist. He and Quint head out to the beach, and though I try not to stare, I can’t help sneaking glances their way whenever I’m not busy answering questions from the day’s volunteers. Quint speaks so passionately, his body language exuberant, his expressions running from distraught—I imagine he’s telling stories of the sad states in which some of the animals have been found—to ecstatic as the conversation turns to more uplifting things. The patients’ unique personalities and how it feels to return them to the ocean. While he talks, the journalist takes lots of notes and occasionally snaps a picture of the volunteers and the garbage we’re collecting.

By noon, the beach is looking as spotless as if humanity had never set foot here to begin with. Quint and I help volunteers empty their totes into the bins, sorting the garbage from the recyclables. I’m surprised when some of the volunteers, who have really started to get into the swing of this altruism thing, even jump in to help us.

Finally, Quint makes a proclamation that everyone has done a great job, and thanks them for their help. While I give my prepared spiel about the center and its mission (which only take up six minutes of my life—I timed myself a few days ago), Quint calls his mom and tells her to bring the trailer around.

It’s time to release some animals back to their homes.

TWENTY-NINE

A honk draws my attention toward the boardwalk. The van, emblazoned with the center’s logo, pulls out onto the sand. A cheer goes up from the volunteers. I can hear the clicking of Jason’s camera.

Quint helps guide his mom as she turns around so that the back of the van is facing the water. It seems like it would be a simple maneuver, but driving on the ever-shifting sands is tricky, and every summer there are stories of people losing their vehicles to the ocean because they were driving too close and their wheels got stuck in the wet sand. Rosa is cautious, though, and besides, she’s probably done this hundreds of times.

As the van comes to a stop, the crowd moves in excitedly, phones and cameras readied. Quint and I have to remind everyone to stay back so that the seals have an open path to get out to the ocean. I’ve been told that most of the released animals waste no time once they see the crashing waves—they’re excited to flipper their way down to the water and disappear into the welcoming bay. But every once in a while, according to Quint, there’s an animal that is more curious about the volunteers and any people who just happen to be on the beach that day. The animals sometimes want to inspect bagged lunches or roll around in the sand like they’re trying to entertain whoever’s watching. Which is an adorable memory for everyone involved, but can also cause some difficulties for the release crew as they attempt to coerce the animal into going where it’s supposed to.

Rosa and Shauna emerge from the van and Rosa greets the crowd with a wide, almost giddy smile.

“Wow,” she breathes. “This is by far the most people we’ve ever had to witness one of our animal releases. I’ve been doing this job for almost twenty years, but this is the first time one of our release celebrations has been a public affair. I’m so happy you could all join us today, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for helping to make our beach clean and safe for these amazing animals. I think, after you see how happy they are to be going back to their natural habitat, you’ll be just as excited as I am to have been a part of this day.” She gestures at me and Quint. “And I want to give an extra big thank-you to my son, Quint, and our newest volunteer, Prudence, who made this event happen.”

I give an awkward wave to the crowd. People applaud graciously, if a little impatiently. I dare to glance at Quint and we share a proud look and then—he winks at me.

My heartbeat skitters.

“I’ll be happy to stay and answer anyone’s questions about the center after the release,” says Rosa, “but for now, I know you aren’t here to see me. You’re here to see Pepper, Tyrion, Chip, and Navy, four harbor seals who are eager to get back to their home.”

Rosa and Shauna open the back of the van, revealing four kennels. Dark eyes and furry, whiskered faces peer out through the bars, and a unanimous aww rises up from the onlookers.

We unload the crates, setting them into the sand. Rosa reminds everyone not to approach the animals and not to give them any food.

“But take as many pictures as you want,” I add, “and please tag us if you post them on social media.”

Behind the barred doors of the crates, I can see the harbor seals perking up, looking curiously out at the ocean. There’s a near-overwhelming sense of anticipation.

The doors are opened.

Three of the four seals bolt from the crates as if they’re in the Kentucky Derby. They belly flop their way down the shore, clustered together, their flippers smacking the sand. They dive face-first into the surf and within seconds they’ve disappeared beneath the waves.

The fourth harbor seal, Chip, is more hesitant. He takes his time poking his head out of the crate, taking in his surroundings. He inspects the crowd and shyly, uncertainly, plods out of the crate. And then he just sits there, looking around as if confused. Rosa and Quint have to get a couple of boards from the van and use them to nudge Chip toward the water, like one would herd a difficult pig toward its pen.