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.
Now she was going alone.
Margo had planned this trip for eighteen months. The Dry Tortugas National Park—seventy miles west of Key West, a hexagonal fort rising from aquamarine water like a mirage—was supposed to be her and her father’s final adventure. But cancer had made other reservations. dry tortugas ferry reservations
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.” Now she was going alone
And somewhere in the reservation system of the universe, a seat marked Kowalski had been held for her all along. But cancer had made other reservations
“Name?” asked the deckhand, a sun-bleached man named Cruz.
“I don’t see you.”