Page 27 of On Dry Land

“Hi, my name is Spencer Davis. May I speak to Meryl Thompson, please?”

“You’ve got her! How can I help you, Spencer Davis?” she replies cheerfully and still a touch louder than necessary for talking on the phone.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Thompson. Amy Libby passed along your name, though, and mentioned that you might be looking for some help cleaning out a shed?”

“Oh, bless her. And you can call me Meryl. Mrs. Thompsons are a dime a dozen, but have you ever met a Meryl?”

“No, ma’am,” I reply, smiling. A man walking his dog past my bench catches my eye at the same time and smiles back cheerfully.

“Meryl it is. And my husband is Doug, but don’t bother calling him because he can’t hear worth a damn anyway.” I snort, leaning against the hard back of the bench and stretching my legs out. I have a feeling this is going to be a long phone call. “Now, the shed out back. It’s an awful mess, Spencer, and could use a good spring clean. Most of the junk isn’t worth anything, but Doug’s got his tools and different bits back there, you know. There’s a lawn mower that hasn’t worked in years, and we don’t mow our lawn, anyhow. April through November, every Saturday, a couple of youngsters come take care of that. High schoolers, I think. I don’t know who organizes it—their mothers, I suppose. They do a good job, though, you know, and it’s good for them to get out of the house and have some fresh air. Keeps them out of trouble, too, I would think.”

Tipping my head back, I look at the sky as I listen. It’s a nice, nearly cloudless day, the sky a pretty, robin’s-egg blue. By the end of the phone call, I’ve learned quite a bit about the Thompson family and half a dozen other people in Siren’s Point and have a better understanding of exactly how Amy Libby had seemed so knowledgeable about me. These Siren’s Pointers are terrible gossips.

Meryl asks me to stop by this coming Saturday and hands over her address as though I’m not a perfect stranger who walked into town days ago. Shaking my head, I memorize the address to put into my phone once we’re done chatting. It takes her another ten minutes to say goodbye. I’m still smiling when we hang up and, honestly, looking forward to helping them out this weekend. Even if all I earn for my trouble is fifty dollars in cash, it’ll be worth it. It’s been a long time since I had a grandma, and I miss it.

The business card that was tucked inside the scrap of paper with Meryl Thompson’s phone number slides into my hand as I tip it. A single day of work isn’t enough. I need the promise of more income, or I’ll have to move on from Siren’s Point a lot sooner than I’d been planning.

And I don’t want to. I’m tired. Not just physically from walking, but mentally from the constant battle of not knowing when the next meal will come, where I’ll be sleeping, and the fear that never goes away. Fear is a good emotion, I know—a silent passenger that has whispered in my ear and saved my life more times than I probably even realize. Fear keeps me smart, keeps me on my toes.

But it’s also heavy. I want, more than anything else, a break. I want to sleep another night in Dryden Roy’s guest cottage—sheets soft, mattress thick, and a lock on the door. I want another day of three meals. I want more people looking me in the eye and smiling, instead of crossing to the other side of the street when they see me coming. And, almost as much as I want the food, I want to talk to Dryden Roy, the first person in a very long time to speak to me as though I’m a sentient being and not a piece of trash on the sidewalk and to listen when I reply.

If I want all those things for a little while longer, then I need to earn them. Nothing is free, not even rest. Sighing, I get up, and business card clenched in my hand, I walk down the street toward Caring Claws Animal Clinic.

“Dryden?” I call, poking my head into the boat shed, my voice bouncing off the metal walls back at me.

“Here,” he replies, his tone implying a duh, idiot. His car is outside, to be fair, but still, it felt strange just walking in. Closing the door behind me, I walk around the front of the boat, reaching up to trail gentle fingers along the white paint.

“Hey,” I greet Dryden, stopping a healthy distance away from him and stuffing my hands into my pockets. He glances up at me but doesn’t reply, focusing his eyes back on his hands. I watch as well, finding something oddly peaceful in the quick, sure movements of his fingers as he ties a knot.

“Need help?” I offer eventually.

“No. Finished.”

And indeed, he slips the knot through and tightens it with a decisive movement before using his elbow to begin coiling the length into a neat circle.

“Oh. You’re done? Those are the…the warps, right? That you told me about yesterday. Two different colors.”

He looks over at me again, the blank expression slipping just enough to let amusement peek through.

“Correct,” he agrees. “Once the Maiden is ready, we can pull fifty traps and replace them with these.”

“They figured out the problem?” I perk up, looking over at the boat looming above us on the risers. “That’s awesome. Can they fix it soon, or?”

“By the end of the week, hopefully.”

“Expensive?” I ask, curious enough not to feel bad about the slightly rude question. Dryden snorts.

“You do not want to know,” he warns. Dusting off his palms, he raises an eyebrow at me. “Successful afternoon?”

I nod, even though the question makes me want to cringe. I should be happy. I am happy. An incredible amount of good fortune has found me here in Siren’s Point, and today was just another cherry added on top of the sundae. Perhaps presenting me with a job at a vet clinic is the universe’s way of balancing the scales. On one side, I’ve got a roof over my head and food to eat. On the other, a job that terrifies me. Dryden is still staring at me, waiting for me to continue. I clear my throat.

“I’m going to help the Thompsons clear out their storage shed on Saturday, and Monday, I start work at the Animal Clinic.” Dryden’s eyebrows rise. Before he can ask, I add, “I started with Amy Libby, and she pretty much told me exactly where to go and who to talk to.”

He snorts, plucking the car keys from where they’d been sitting on a workbench.

“Oh, yes, a wealth of information, that woman. Knew where you were living, too, I expect?”

“Yeah. I think maybe she missed her calling as a private detective.”