attention and they start to think their donations could make more of a difference elsewhere…”
Comprehension dawns in Quint’s eye. He grabs a pen and starts scribbling something in the corner of the paper. “I’ll mention it to Mom,” he says. “But it doesn’t really help with drumming up more money.”
“No, but it’s good to know that people who do become invested in the center tend to stick around. Having repeat donors means you won’t be starting at square one every year. So … how do we get people to donate in the first place, and how do we get them to care enough that they’ll want to keep helping?”
Quint says nothing. He finishes the doughnut and wipes his hand on a napkin.
“I really think we need to work the local angle,” I say. “I mean, if someone in Milwaukee wants to save sea animals, they’ll give their money to the World Wildlife Fund or something. They’re not going to bother with tiny little Fortuna Beach’s rescue center. But people who live here and visit here … they care. Or, they should. We need to establish the center as a part of the community.”
Quint crumples the napkin and tosses it into the trash can in the room’s far corner. He doesn’t say anything, and I have the distinct feeling he’s waiting for me to reveal some big, brilliant strategy. Which, I guess, is what I promised him. But while I’ve had lots of ideas, none of them seem like they’re enough. Like they have the potential to bring in enough donations that would make the time or money expense worthwhile.
My attention catches on a line of framed photos on the wall behind Quint. I’d noticed them before, but hadn’t really taken the time to look. My eyes narrow in thought.
Pushing my chair back, I stand and walk over to them. I feel Quint’s eyes on me as I study the first photo. My stomach lurches, but I force myself not to look away. The image shows a sea lion lying in a plastic kiddie pool, perhaps one of the ones I’ve seen down in the yard, with a blanket draped over its back. The flesh around its mouth is punctured through with so many fishhooks, it looks like it’s just been to a body-piercing convention. “That’s awful,” I whisper.
“That’s Captain Hook,” says Quint.
I move to the next photo. This one depicts an elephant seal on the beach, with fishing line entangled around his throat and one of his fins, cutting so deeply that it’s left a row of gashes. I’m a little proud of myself for being able to tell this one’s a male, even though with elephant seals it’s really obvious, as only the males have the strange trunk-like snout that gives them their name. In my opinion, they’re the least-cute of all the animals we treat here, yet I can’t help but feel a tug in my heart to see the poor guy in such obvious pain.
The third photo shows what at first glance appears to be just a pile of litter on the beach—plastic bags and fishing nets. Only on closer inspection do I realize there’s a sea turtle entangled, nearly buried, beneath it all. My hand squeezes as I stare at it, and I wish I could punish the person who threw their garbage into the ocean or left it behind on the shore. But the universe stays quiet. I don’t feel the gentle swoop in the pit of my stomach, like I’ve felt when this bit of magic has worked before. After all, these animals were hurt a long time ago. That litter could have been thrown away weeks, months … even years before it did this.
Then an idea hits me. I gasp and spin to face Quint. He must see something in my face, because he drops his feet to the floor and sits up straight, ready to listen.
“A beach cleanup!” I say. “Let’s host a beach cleanup.”
TWENTY-THREE
Rather than being overcome with sudden inspiration like I am, Quint looks skeptical. “You want people to come pick up garbage?”
“Yes! Remember? People want to be a part of the solution, but first you have to show them an easy and convenient way to do it.”
“How very generous of them,” he deadpans.
“I’m serious.” I smack Quint on the shoulder and drop into the chair beside him. Reaching across the table, I grab my notebook and pull it toward me. At the top of a blank page, I write