Shipped(23)

Over 90 percent of our passengers opt to snorkel, so I won’t get a full sense of the experience if I don’t do it at least once. It’s about time I faced my fears anyway. And if it gives me ideas to help me land this promotion? It’s worth it.

Crossing my legs, I flip my braid over my shoulder. Time to turn this magnifying glass around and see how Graeme likes being scrutinized. “So what’s the deal with you and public speaking—or is it crowds you don’t like?”

Walsh sits up straighter.

Gripping an armrest, Graeme shifts in his seat. The metal chair squeaks in protest.

“Come on, don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. You were all red and sweaty after Gustavo introduced you at the safety briefing. Not exactly a normal reaction.”

Now it’s Graeme’s turn to play it casual. “Remote employee, remember? There aren’t many opportunities for public speaking in my living room. I’m out of practice, that’s all.”

I don’t buy it. His voice is so tense you could pluck it like a guitar string.

The sound of a blender floats through the open door to the café’s kitchen. Graeme peers over my shoulder, then jerks his chin at Walsh’s milkshake just as she takes another sip. “Don’t drink that.”

“Why?” she blurts.

“There’s a woman inside making a milkshake and I just saw her add ice to the blender.” At Walsh’s questioning stare, he continues. “Ice is frozen tap water, and the water in Galápagos isn’t safe to drink. You might be ingesting contaminated water.”

I knew not to drink the water here, but ice in a milkshake never crossed my mind. Apparently, it hadn’t crossed Walsh’s either.

“Come on,” I scoff. “This is the main town on San Cristóbal, the political capital of the Galápagos. I’m sure they serve tourists all the time and know to make ice with purified water.”

“Do you see any other tourists around here? This area is off the beaten path. All locals.”

Sure enough, all the other patrons in this café—and the coffee shop next door—are Ecuadoran. Not a tube-sock-wearing tourist in sight.

Walsh gingerly places her milkshake on the table like she’s handling a live grenade. A frothy slurry at the bottom is all that’s left, glittering with what I now recognize are, yep, flecks of ice. My entire body goes rigid, a boatload of oh crap pouring though my head.

Her lips tighten and the color drains from her cheeks.

Putting on a show of bravado, I shake my head. “No worries. Walsh has an iron constitution. More than I do, anyway,” I add in a mutter. “I’m sure she’ll be fine.”





8




Walsh is not fine.

She only nibbled her dinner last night and disappeared to our cabin when her stomach started making noises that had the women sitting next to us clutching their pearls in shock. I checked on her a few times throughout the evening, but she insisted I buzz off, so I ended up answering work emails in the lounge until well after midnight before I finally braved going to bed. Not that I blamed Walsh for wanting to be alone. Nobody likes having someone hover when they’re in gastrointestinal distress.

A toilet flushes, pulling me out of my groggy half-sleep. A few moments later, Walsh opens the bathroom door, causing a beam of fluorescent light to spill into our dim cabin. I blink against the sudden brightness and push myself higher in bed. My head pounds with exhaustion—what time is it?

Before I can grab my phone, I catch sight of Walsh’s face and gasp. “Oh my God, are you okay?”

“Does it look like I’m okay?” she croaks. Face pale, forehead slick with sweat, she collapses into the twin bed across from mine. Curling into the fetal position, she rolls toward the wall. Her phone buzzes on her nightstand, but she doesn’t move. Wow, she must be feeling really bad to ignore a new text.

I lumber out of bed and open the curtains a crack. Bright sunlight streams through the window, making me squint. Holy crap, it’s morning already. “Were you sick all night?”

“Ughhhhh.”

Now that I think about it, I vaguely remember the bathroom door opening and closing multiple times throughout the night. No wonder I’m so tired. “What can I get you? Medicine?”

“I already took some.”

I touch her shoulder. “Ginger ale?”

She groans in response and pulls the covers over her head. “Just leave me alone to die.”

“Maybe you should see the ship’s medical officer. I can come with you.”

She flips the blanket away from her face. “No, no. I’ll be okay. There cannot possibly be anything left in my stomach. I just need to sleep. It was a rough night.”

The wall speaker crackles and Gustavo’s jovial voice barrels through my ears. “Good morning, good morning. I hope everyone enjoyed a filling, delicious breakfast, because the dining room is now closed.”

I grab my phone and check the time. It’s after nine. How is it after nine? I set an alarm last night for seven so I could get up early and work on my proposal. I must have accidentally turned it off, and now I’ve missed breakfast to boot. Plopping onto my bed with a moan, I scrub both palms over my face.

“If you plan on snorkeling this afternoon or at any point during the trip,” Gustavo continues, “this is your last call to pick up snorkeling equipment. Remember, please be prepared to try on your wet suit to ensure a correct fit. Guests going on the three-hour hike this morning will disembark at nine thirty. Those wishing to do the one-hour beach walk will disembark at eleven. Thirty minutes until the long hike. Thirty minutes, long hike. Thank you.”