or my parents or even Mr. Chavez, though I can’t help but suspect that part of it might be wanting to prove something to Quint, too.
He’s still eyeing me, not trying to hide that he’s suspicious. Staring me down. Waiting for me to cave and admit that this is absolutely not what I signed up for. That I’ll be saying goodbye now, thanks.
I plant one hand on my hip, daring him to test my resolve.
“Well?” I say, breaking the silence. “What next? Do we bake them octopus pies? Maybe a crab cake?”
His cheek twitches. “Crab is too expensive. But they do like squid.”
I gag quietly. “Yum.”
“What, you’ve never had calamari? It’s delicious.”
“Everything is delicious when you deep-fry it.”
“Come on. If you haven’t been scared off yet, I suppose I should give you the grand tour.”
I have the feeling that this all might have been a test and, somewhat shockingly, I seem to have passed. We step out into the hallway, and Quint starts explaining the various rooms and workstations. This is where the animals are first inspected—vitals taken, blood drawn, checked for wounds. This is the surgery room. Laundry. Dishes. This is where the animals that are in critical condition are kept, the ones that need constant monitoring. Storage and admin offices upstairs, along with a break room and small kitchenette because, according to Quint, my appetite will return eventually. I’m not sure I believe him, but fine.
It’s all a little disconcerting given how civil he’s being. How civil I’m being.
And then it hits me.
We actually accomplished something together.
Sure, that accomplishment was nothing more than pureeing up a bunch of fish guts, but still, the fact that I only sometimes wanted to strangle him seems kind of huge.
All signs of Angry Quint have gone. He’s back to his old casual self. But—no. Not exactly like his old self, the Quint Erickson who’s driven me absolutely bonkers all year. It’s more like being with a Quint clone. I never, in a million years, would have pictured him working someplace like this. The beach, yes. On a surfboard, sure. Playing video games in his mom’s basement until he’s forty, oh, most definitely. But this is a side of Quint I didn’t know existed, that I never even considered a possibility.
But his confidence here, his knowledge, his ability to actually do what needs to be done. It’s unsettling.
And maddening.
Why couldn’t this guy have been my lab partner?
“Ready to meet some of the patients?” Quint asks, oblivious to my silent stewing.
I smile tightly. “Been waiting all day.”
We return to the long corridor. Most of the enclosures have three or four animals inside them, with the names of the patients written on a small whiteboard beside each gate, but Quint doesn’t need to look at them as we pass by. “We can get up to two hundred animals in a single season,” he says, “and it can be tough coming up with new names for them all, so we tend to put them in groups. Lately we’ve been on a superhero kick, so here we’ve got Peter Parker, Lois Lane, and Iron Man. Avenger and Hulk are out in the yard.”
“Does your mom come up with the names?”
“Naw, usually we let the rescue crew name them, or sometimes whoever found them and called us. People get really excited when they get to name the animal they found, and that can inspire a whole new slew of names. This year someone named an elephant seal Vin Diesel, which inspired an entire action-flick group—Bruce Willis, Lara Croft, James Bond … We also have a huge Harry Potter group going on right now, because one of the volunteers is a megafan. So far, we’ve got…” He inhales deeply and his eyes rise to the ceiling as he tries to count them all off. “Harry, Hagrid, Percy, George, Fred, Krum, Draco, McGonagall, Dumbledore, Tom Riddle”—he pauses to give me a secretive look and whispers—“he was always bullying the others. And…” He perks up and crouches down in front of one of the gates. A sad-looking animal is resting on its side, staring up at us with unblinking eyes. “Luna Lovegood.” He shakes his head. “You weren’t supposed to come back here. What happened?” He shakes his head. “Poor girl. You look terrible.”
I stare at the animal. I don’t think she looks that terrible. Just tired. And definitely skinnier than a lot of the others we’ve passed.
“She’s lost a lot of weight since we released her,” he says, as if