Luna rolls off him and then they’re both plodding toward me. Luna’s head nudges my thigh and I spend a few minutes stroking their fur. “That’s some intense rain out there, isn’t it?” I say, trying to keep my voice soothing. “But it’s okay. You’re safe in here. And I’m glad to see you’ve been taking care of each other.”

The rain continues to pound on the rooftop overhead, but it seems to have eased from the initial torrents.

“Prudence?” Quint’s voice echoes down the long corridor.

“Back here.” I stand up and the sea lions immediately return to snuggling each other.

When Quint reaches us, he looks concerned—but his face softens as soon as he spies the animals. “I wish the lighting was better in here,” he says. “That’d make a great picture.”

“It’s probably decent enough for a social media post anyway? People might be wondering how we’re faring with this storm.”

He nods and takes out his phone. When the flash sparks, Luna covers her head with her flippers again, but Lennon just peers up at Quint, confused.

“What did your mom say?”

“We should be good. Not much more we can do until the storm lets up. She’s happy we’re here. She wanted to come herself, but I guess there are flash floods happening all over the place and she didn’t think it would be safe to drive. And she said we might be better off staying here until the storm passes?”

I let myself out of Luna and Lennon’s pen. “I should probably call my parents, too,” I say, heading toward the lobby, where I’d dropped my phone and backpack as soon as we got here.

The phone rings twice before my mom answers, sounding frantic. I assume she’s been worried about me—but no. Ellie, who they keep trying to put to bed by eight o’clock, is still wide-awake, fighting her nightly sleepy-time routine with gusto. I can hear her wailing in the background. As for me, Mom had assumed that I was still on Main Street, probably hunkered down in Encanto. I tell her Quint and I came to the center to make sure the animals were okay, and after a moment’s hesitation, she offers to drive down and pick me up.

The offer is comforting, even though I can hear the exhaustion in her voice.

“No,” I say. “It’s all right. I’ll just stay here until the storm is over.”

“All right, sweetheart. That’s probably for the best. Be safe, okay?”

“Okay, Mom. I’ll call you if anything changes.”

I hang up and turn around to see—

Quint.

Quint is standing in the doorway, just a few feet away from me.

Quint is shirtless.

Quint is wearing a faded blue towel around his waist, and using a second towel to dry his hair.

I yelp. “Holy—! What—! Why are you—?” I spin back around, my face aflame. My elbow knocks my backpack off the reception desk and it lands with a splat on the floor, scattering my pens and a couple of slightly damp notebooks.

Even though I’m not facing Quint anymore, I squeeze my eyes shut. “Where did your clothes go?”

There’s a moment of silence, and then—Quint loses it. His laughter comes on strong, and it doesn’t stop. I frown, listening to his guffaws, his howls, his gasps for air.

After a while, my surprise and embarrassment start to give way to annoyance.

Bracing myself, I turn just enough so I can glare at him over my shoulder. Quint doesn’t seem to notice. He’s fallen against the wall and is struggling to breathe. He has tears on his face. Honest-to-goodness tears.

“Sorry,” he gasps, once he’s managed to bring his hysteria under control. “Just—your face! Oh my god, Pru.” He wipes the tears away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out. But … I mean, you’ve seen guys without shirts before, right? You’ve been to the beach?”

“That’s different!” I stomp my foot. Petulantly. Immaturely. I don’t care. Why is he almost naked?

There’s still a distant amusement lingering on Quint’s face, but at least he seems to be done laughing at me. “How is it different?” he says, clearly teasing me.

Because it just is, I want to say.

Because they’re not you.

I clear my throat. “You just surprised me. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“You’re not scarred for life?”

“Remains to be seen.”

I turn back to him, but can’t bring myself to meet his eye. I find myself staring at the satirical Jaws poster instead. “So, where did your clothes go, exactly?”

“The dryer. I was just heading upstairs to grab some volunteer shirts for us.”

Oooh. The dryer. I wilt with relief to hear such a practical explanation. We use the washer and dryer daily for the animals’ blankets and towels, but it didn’t occur to me to use it for us.

“Right. Okay. Good idea.”

Quint hands me a towel and I start drying my hair.

“I’ll go get those shirts,” he says. I can still hear the occasional chuckle as he heads up the stairs.

I make my way to the small utility room with the washer and dryer and close the door behind me. Peeling off my wet shirt and jeans is like peeling off a second skin. My bra and underwear are damp, too, but I can live with that. I toss my things into the dryer. They land on top of Quint’s shirt and pants. Criminy, this is weird. I start blushing all over again.

I grab a new towel from the shelf and wrap it around my body sarong-style. Then I start the dryer and stand there, listening to it rumble and thud, wondering what to do now. I am not going to go strutting around Quint in nothing but a towel, but it will be at least half an hour before our clothes are dry.

The second I have this thought, the lights flicker.

I glance up.

They flicker again—then go out.

I’m plunged into darkness so thick, it feels like I’ve been sucked into a black hole. The dryer whines to a stop. Our heavy, damp clothes thud down one last time. An eerie silence falls over the center, broken only by the torrential rains that continue to pound against the side of the building and the occasional unhappy barks of the animals.

“Prudence?”

Gripping the towel, I open the door and peek my head out into the corridor. Quint is moving toward me, illuminated by the flashlight feature on his cell phone. He’s put on a shirt, thankfully, but still has the towel around his waist.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah. The power…”

“I know. Here.” He hands me a yellow T-shirt.

“Is there a generator?”

“I don’t think so.”

I duck back into the room and turn on the flashlight on my phone, too. It casts the small room in a faint white glow as I pull on the T-shirt and tie the towel skirtlike around my waist.

I grimace. I can secure the towel around my hips, but it leaves a gap across one thigh. I cannot go out there like this.

Then I remember that there’s a stack of blankets next to the washer. I take off the towel and grab a blanket instead. I feel better immediately, with the fabric more than covering my hips and falling all the way past my ankles. It smells like fish and seawater, given that it usually lives in the pens with the animals. Not all that long ago I would have been completely grossed out by this, but now I’m just grateful. Besides, I’m often the person doing the laundry at the end of the day, so I know the towels and blankets are regularly washed.

I grab my phone and open the door.

“Now what?” I ask, before realizing that Quint is holding my backpack.

He holds it out, gripping the handles. “You dropped this in the lobby,” he says. “I didn’t know if you needed it.”

“Thanks.” I take it from him, but he looks troubled.

“What’s wrong?”

He clears his throat and holds out something else. Two things, actually. A pale yellow envelope that’s been ripped open, and a white envelope, thick with dollar bills. “These spilled out.”

“Oh.” I swallow. “The money is for my parents…” I feel like I should say more. It’s weird to be carrying around all that money. But—I don’t want to tell him about the pawnshop. I don’t want him to know that my parents have resorted to selling off our possessions. I’ve done a good job not thinking about it all day today, but whenever it does crop up in my thoughts, my stomach twists. With worry. With guilt. I’ve spent my whole summer so focused on trying to help the center. Should I have been trying to help my own family instead?

In the end, I don’t tell Quint anything, just tuck the money back into my bag and zip it into one of the side pockets, which I probably should have done from the beginning. It’s really none of his business, anyway.

But I’m still holding the yellow envelope, and his eyes are on it, his brow tense. “My mom wrote a bunch of thank-you notes to some of our donors last month,” he says, “just like you suggested. I helped her put stamps on them…”

I know he’s telling me this to clue me in that he knows what this is. Almost like he’s trying to get a confession out of me.

And maybe that’s reasonable. This wasn’t my mail to open, and it certainly wasn’t mine to keep.

I sigh. “Dr. Jindal dropped it the other day when she was bringing in the mail. I picked it up, and when I saw who it was addressed to…”

I flip it over so Quint can see Grace Livingstone’s name, and the post office stamp: DECEASED.

Understanding flickers across his features. “Maya’s grandma.”

“I know I shouldn’t have opened it, but…” I hesitate. But what, exactly? It seemed like the universe was trying to tell me something? I shake my head. “I shouldn’t have opened it. I’m sorry.”

Quint takes the card, and for a moment, he looks torn. But then a wisp of a smile crosses his face. “I would have been curious, too. I’ll tell Mom that I was the one who opened it, that I go to school with her granddaughter. I think she’ll understand.”