Page 145 of Rhodes

It feels like knowing where I'm sleeping tonight and what I have to do tomorrow. It feels like Jo stealing my charger and Deuce complaining about professors and a glass in my hand that nobody is checking.

Jo bumps my shoulder. “What time are you leaving tomorrow?”

“After my lab. I should be done by ten and hope to be packed and on the road by 10:05.”

“I thought your lab was today?”

“No, your lab was today. Mine is tomorrow, and then I'm done."

She squints at me. “I hate this week. I can't remember if it's Monday or Wednesday, which way is up or down.”

“Your suffering is almost over.”

“My suffering will be over when I am in Biloxi in Ford’s apartment eating takeout, with no homework or exams hanging over me.”

Nash looks between us. “Wait. You’re going to Biloxi from here?”

“Yeah, for a few days, then home for Christmas. I'll come check on our reef work over the holidays, so it won't be completely neglected for three weeks.”

Deuce reaches for the basket of fries in the middle of the table. “What exactly do you two do out there every Friday? I know you’ve explained it, but every time you say ‘reef work,’ I picture you both scuba diving.”

“I've known you for what, close to a year, and I've told you at least five times what we do. How do you not know? We don't do anything remotely close to scuba diving.”

“That's good, because the Mississippi water is pretty murky. I'd be worried about you.”

“You're ridiculous,” Jo says. “No wonder you're a fifth-year senior.”

"Easy, tiger. Jeez. I was trying to show interest in what you're doing."

I take a fry before Deuce can empty the basket. “We monitor the restoration sites, check placement, record recruitment, make sure nothing shifted where it shouldn't, and deal with whatever decided to break that week. Essentially, we're restoring decades of damage to the shoreline.”

He thinks about that. “Thank you, Tilly, for taking the time to talk to me like a decent human being.”

“I've said almost the exact same thing to you, Deuce,” Jo says, exasperated.

Nash laughs.

Jo pulls her phone toward her again. “Speaking of the job, Marco texted me this afternoon. He says the fan in the bagging shed finally died for real.”

I groan. “He said that fan was going to make it through winter.”

“He also said duct tape was structural.”

“Marco believes a lot of things.”

“I told him not to touch it until I can go out there over the break with my uncle. He will know what we should do for a long-term solution.”

“Good.”

Deuce looks at me. “You work on oysters, and somehow there is still a bagging shed involved.”

“There are bags, and there are lots of oysters. I'm not sure I understand your confusion.”

Someone shoves into the back of our booth hard enough to shake the table, apologizes without looking at us, and disappears into the crowd.

Jo checks the time. “Eleven fifteen. If I leave now, I could be packed by midnight.”

Nash says, “I haven't packed anything.”