She holds her breath, ready for sloppy tile and smudged glass, but to her shock, things look decent. This fellow Terry brought on to fill in is managing well. This begets a small corollary disappointment, the dull realization that she is not indispensable. But overall, this is a good development. More than once, the thought of the aquarium being cleaned in a subpar manner has given her pause about her plans to leave. Perhaps this new fellow can stay on after Tova’s departure.
Heading around the hallway toward the octopus’s tank, she moves as discreetly as she can with this wretched boot. Which is unnecessary, because she’s the only human here. Whispered greetings to her old friends, the Japanese crabs, the wolf eels, the jellies, and the sea cucumbers, linger for a moment in the dark corridor then vanish into the bluish-green air like wisps of smoke. Even if they could, these creatures would never tell anyone she was here. It’ll be their secret.
She passes the sea lion statue and, as always, pauses to stroke its head, reveling in the fleeting illusion of her son flickering within her when she touches something he so adored.
Approaching the entrance to the back of the octopus enclosure, Tova frowns. A fluorescent glow seeps from under the door. Someone has left the light on.
Then a terrible clatter erupts inside.
Conscience Does Make Cowards of Us All
Cameron blinks. Wincing, he rubs his temple, which is throbbing where it must’ve smacked into the table as he fell. He wipes the smear of blood on his shirt and gives the busted stepladder a vengeful kick. If he wanted to, he could probably sue the balls off of this place. Poorly maintained equipment. A workplace injury. But what if someone asks him to explain what he was doing back here in the first place?
“You,” he says, glaring at the creature as he stands. The thing hasn’t moved. It’s hunkered like some overgrown tarantula, having burrowed in the clutter of tubes and jars and pump parts in the deepest corner of the shelf above the tanks. It scrambled up there, somehow, as Cameron tried to corral it with a broom handle, which he now jabs toward the creature again. “What’s your problem, bro? I’m trying to help you.”
Its massive body heaves, like a sigh. At least it’s still alive, but probably not for much longer. An octopus can survive briefly out of water （there was a documentary once, on some nature channel）， but this one has been on shore leave for almost twenty minutes, and that’s just counting from the time Cameron discovered it trying to slip out the back door he’d left propped open.
Someone could’ve warned him the exhibits might escape. Like, how is this even a possibility? Secure tanks should be a reasonable expectation in a tourist aquarium. Honestly, the situation is making him uneasy about those sharks circling the big tank in the middle, especially now that his head is bleeding. Can sharks smell through glass?
“Come on, buddy,” he begs. Head still throbbing, he adjusts the gloves he put on after the thing tried to strangle his wrist and inches the broom handle closer. Expecting the octopus to . . . what, exactly? Slide down it like a fireman’s pole? But he can’t let the stubborn asshole just die up there, and there’s no way he’s touching it again, even with gloves. It looks like it wants to kill him. “Outta there, now. Back to your tank.”
A tentacle tip twitches, defiant, dislodging a pair of thin metal canisters and knocking them to the ground. They land with twin clangs.
This is going to be what gets Cameron fired. How many times can one person get canned in a lifetime? There should be a legal limit.
Something clicks softly behind him. Then a woman’s voice, trembling but clear. “Hello? Who’s in here?”
Nearly dropping the broomstick, he turns. A tiny woman stands in the doorway. Miniature, almost: she can’t be more than five feet tall. She’s older, maybe a little older than Aunt Jeanne, maybe late-sixties or seventy. She’s wearing a purple blouse, and her left ankle is swallowed in a walking cast.
“Oh! Um . . . hi. I was just—”
The lady’s sharp gasp cuts him off. She has spotted the creature cowered on the high shelf.
Cameron twists his hands. “Yeah, so I was just trying to—”
“Out of the way, dear.” She pushes past him. Her voice is low and quiet now, any trepidation gone. Moving faster than he would’ve guessed possible, given her age and that boot, she’s across the room in three strides, where she regards the broken stool for a moment and shakes her head. Then, unbelievably, she scrambles to the top of the table. Standing at her full height up there, she’s almost face level with the octopus.