Cruz scanned his tablet. Frowned. Scrolled. Frowned deeper.
Cruz tilted the screen toward the sunrise. “This says standby. Ma’am, standby isn’t a seat. It’s a prayer. We’ve got forty-two people on the waitlist today. Spring break. Calm seas. Everyone wants Fort Jefferson.” dry tortugas ferry reservations
Margo’s stomach turned to conch chowder. “That’s impossible. I have the receipt.” She thrust her phone at him. Cruz scanned his tablet
The crossing was rougher than predicted—six-foot swells, the kind that made the crew pass out green ginger chews like communion wafers. But Margo stood at the rail the whole way, salt spray plastering her hair to her face, watching the horizon. And when Fort Jefferson finally rose from the sea—brick-red and hexagonal, a Civil War relic guarding nothing but sea turtles and sky—she opened the box. Frowned deeper
The wind took the ashes instantly, swirling them over the gun deck, past the nesting frigatebirds, out toward the coral reefs her father had described in a letter he never mailed.
Margo almost dropped the wooden box.