It’s stil tropical, stil part of the United States. Stil human.

Maybe not different at al .

“My Spanish has definitely improved,” he says.

“I’l bet.”

We spend several minutes devouring the sushi, with Tel in eating two for every one I take—he wasn’t joking about being starved—while I ask him about Puerto Rico. Other than a few day trips into Miami for flea-market shopping with Aunt Rachel, I haven’t been anywhere on land besides Seaview. I’m curious to know more.

The stories he tel s of salsa dancing and scary caretas and cocina criolla make me want to explore more of the world above the water. Who knows what else I’m missing?

“It’s too bad,” Tel in says when we’ve finished off the last of the sushi and waved away Laver’s offer for more.

“What’s too bad?” I ask when he doesn’t explain.

“That our worlds have to remain so separate.”

“You mean Seaview and San Juan?”

“No,” he says with a sad laugh. “I mean the mer world and the terraped world.”

“Oh.”

I’ve wished things were different, too. That wish, that question has definitely come up more than once during my three years on land. Every time I had to lie to Shannen about where I was going for the weekend—thankful y, not an issue anymore since she knows the truth. Every time I had to check over my shoulder ten times before sinking beneath the waves at Seaview Pier, lest some overeager lifeguard try to save me from drowning. Every time Mrs.

Ferraro complained about her coffee going cold and I had to fight the urge to say, “Hey, hand it to me. I can warm it up.”

Those were the times that made me wonder, Wouldn’t it be nice if humans knew? If I didn’t have to hide the truth about myself at al costs?

As nice as it would be, it’s just a dream. A very dangerous dream.

“Yeah,” I final y agree, “it’s too bad. But also necessary.” Tel in absently swirls his seasticks back and forth over the empty platter.

“Is it?” His eyes have a faraway look. “I don’t know.”

“Of course it is,” I insist. “You know what might happen to us, to al the mer kingdoms. It’s just too risky.” He looks up, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “What if?” he asks, starting the game we used to play as guppies.

“What if terrapeds knew?”

“Okay,” I say, turning to face him. “What if. What if… we cal ed a press conference with the kings and queens of al the mer kingdoms?”

“What if,” he continues, “our fathers stood side by side to tel the terraped world that merfolk exist?” The what-if game is kind of like verbal chess, or math proofs. There is a starting point—what if terrapeds knew—

and an end goal—the mer and human worlds coexisting.

We have to alternate what-ifs to get from the starting point to the goal.

It’s not a game with a winner or loser. The journey is the game.

I ponder my next move, ful of the fears about what might actual y happen if this came to pass. “What if the governments of al the developed human countries sent troops to capture merfolk around the world and lock them away in labs for scientific study?”

Tel in shakes his head. “Out of bounds,” he claims, accusing my what-if of going off track. “We’re thinking positive.”

“Okay,” I relent. “What if the governments of al the developed human countries”—I force myself to think positive—“invited the mer kingdoms to join the United Nations?”

“Better.” Tel in nods. “What if finfolk around the world walked out of the oceans, rivers, and lakes and shared their knowledge and culture with the terrapeds?”

“What if,” I say, imagining this utopian paradise, “humans treated merfolk as equals, rather than mutant creatures?”

“What if…” Tel in shakes his head. “Sounds like a dream world to me.”

I sigh. “Me too.”

“Why don’t we do it?” he suggests. “Why don’t we come out of the ocean?”

I give him a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look. “You know why.”

“I know it’s fear that keeps us trapped in the water,” he says, slamming his seasticks down onto the counter. “The fear of what might happen. But we don’t know. It might unfold just as we said.”

“That’s the dream, Tel in,” I say sadly. “But the fear, the thing that might happen, that’s too terrible to even think about. It’s not worth the risk.”

“I know.” His anger washes away, and he gives me a glowing smile. “But it’s a lovely dream.”

“It is,” I agree. “A lovely dream.”

Unfortunately, the dream can only exist in our what-if game. Too many lives are at stake to reach for the dream and risk facing the nightmare.

Chapter 8

wake early the next morning to find Daddy sitting on the Iedge of my bed, gently nudging my shoulder to rouse me from sleep. I blink him into focus before wrapping my arms around him in a fierce hug.

“Good morning, Daddy.”

He smiles, making little crinkles around his eyes. “Good morning, daughter.”

“How have you been?” I ask, even though I’ve only been gone a couple weeks.

A distant look starts to drift into his eyes, but he shakes it away. “I have been missing you, of course,” he says. “But I understand you have had your fins ful with your cousin.” I groan and rol my eyes and make a tsk ing sound with my tongue, al at once. “Holy Capheira, yes. You know how she can be.”