“Yeah!” Cameron draws in a bracing breath. “I mean, yes. I’d like to make an appointment to meet with Mr. Brinks.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible at the moment.”
“Why not?”
“Mr. Brinks works out of his office in Seattle most of the time. I’d recommend you try to reach him there.”
“I tried!” As if Cameron wouldn’t have tried. It’s the number listed on their damn website. “They told me he was unavailable.”
“Well, then I suppose he’s unavailable.” John Hall’s voice is flat.
“But he can’t be unavailable!” Cameron hates how his voice is trending whiny, like it did when he was begging Katie not to throw his shit out the window. “Please. It’s important.”
John Hall is shuffling some papers or something on the other end of the line. In the distance, a train’s horn sounds, and Cameron can swear he hears the same train, right here on the pier. How could he get so close, yet still be so far?
Finally, Hall asks, “Who did you say you were again?”
“Cameron Cassmore. I’m . . . family.”
“I see. Well, then.” There’s a long pause, and then Hall continues, his voice careful, “You might know, Mr. Brinks can often be found at his summer home this time of year.”
“Summer home? Where?”
Hall laughs. “I can’t just give out his address. Perhaps someone in your family can tell you.”
By the time Cameron has processed this, the line has gone dead. He sinks onto a bench, slumping. How the hell is he supposed to find some vacation mansion?
Before he slips his phone back in his pocket, he sees Aunt Jeanne’s reply: a champagne emoji followed by I’m proud of you, Cammy.
Day 1,324 of My Captivity
TERRY HAS MADE A REPLACEMENT. SWAPPED OUT THE older lady for a younger model, as you humans might say.
He walked by my tank on the way to his interview. Shoulders pulled toward his earlobes, damp palms: clearly anxious. When he departed, his gait was fluid, relaxed. I could tell it had been a successful interview.
Something about the way he walked seemed . . . familiar. I wish I had more chance to study it, but he left the building too quickly. I suppose I shall have my chance soon. This evening, perhaps.
Not a day too soon. Last night, I journeyed around the bend to see whether the rock crabs were molting, as they are most delicious when their shells are soft. The state of the floor was, frankly, alarming. After I returned to my tank, I spent quite a while picking bits of grime from between my suckers.
I do hope the young man starts his new job tonight. The rock crabs were not yet molting, but they will be tomorrow. I do not relish another trip over those disgusting floors.
As for the previous cleaning woman, I can only surmise she is not coming back. I shall miss her.
A Sucker for Injured Creatures
Cameron’s spine feels like someone thrashed it with a baseball bat. Chopping up buckets full of mackerel bait and hauling them all over that aquarium is no joke. His lower back throbs, and there’s a nasty knot under his left shoulder blade and some annoying thing keeps popping in his neck every time he turns his head to the right, which is pretty often because the camper’s passenger-side mirror is busted.
The mattress isn’t helping. After several nights, Cameron finally couldn’t take it anymore. The camper’s previous owner must have used it as a urinal. The stale-piss stench was so bad last night that he dragged it out and flung it onto Ethan’s driveway, opting to sleep on the greasy plank of plywood instead. How bad could it be? he’d thought, half-asleep. It turns out: pretty bad. He’s getting old. Thirty, after all.
At least the tire and wheel well are fixed. Only took seven hundred of his eight hundred dollars. Assuming that his bag doesn’t magically show up, he just has to limp along on that last hundred until his first paycheck from the aquarium, which will be this Friday. Three more days.
Wincing at another crack in his neck, he makes one last right-hand turn and pulls onto Sowell Bay’s main commercial block with its woeful little strip of shops. The realtor’s office Ethan told him about is right in the middle. He parks in front and walks past an ancient meter that doesn’t look like it could possibly be in service. The storefront door lets out an anemic-sounding chime, like a kid’s toy with dying batteries, as he pulls it open.
“Can I help you?” The realtor is a middle-aged woman with bleached blond hair and a narrow, expressionless face.
Cameron introduces himself and explains he’s looking for Simon Brinks.