Violet slung her backpack over one shoulder and moved toward the door. “Tomorrow then.”

“Excellent. Where should I tell him to meet you?”

Violet opened the door and paused. “On the beach in front of the resort. Seven fifteen sharp. I’ll have on a green hat.”

* * *

The next morning, having shaken off the previous day’s agitation, Violet headed to the beach for her survey and tried not to fidget as she waited. She always arrived early when she was training a new volunteer. It was important to earn their respect from the start, and being late would make them think tardiness, sloppiness, or, worse, apathy was acceptable, as if the bird surveys were merely a hobby or a way to pass the time during retirement. She expected a lot from her volunteers, and being on time was just the beginning.

Except this volunteer hadn’t arrived early and wasn’t on time either. She could tell by the height at which the morning sun sat above the horizon it was past her usual 7:15 start time, but she checked her watch anyway: 7:22. She sat on one of the empty lounge chairs lined up a few yards from where the Gulf licked the shore and curled her toes in the still-cool sand.

She’d give the volunteer three more minutes—that’d make him a full ten minutes late—before setting off on her route. Propping her hands behind her, she leaned back and tilted her face up to the light until her thoughts scampered away. She fought a wave of nausea as she remembered fish bones glinting in harsh late-afternoon light and a rip in the side of a bright red dress. Then she heard her name called behind her.

“Violet? Is that you?”

Her heart clanged inside her. She whisked the cobwebs away, the wisps of memories that clung to her despite years of sweeping out the corners, then stood and turned. It was him. Just as she’d known it would be.

My stars. He’s gotten so old.

Then again, so had she. The last time she’d seen Frank Roby, her face had been as unlined as a sheet of drawing paper, her hair still a shiny chestnut, and her body as slender as a sea oat.

He cleared his throat, a nervous tic she remembered well. “I’m sorry I’m late.” His eyes were the same warm gray, like soft flannel or the belly feathers of a chipping sparrow. His voice—the same one she’d heard on the answering machine at the Audubon office, she now realized—was older, of course, with a little more gravel, but it still had the same tenor, still caused the same vibration in her chest. His face was looser and deeply lined, but pleasantly so, and his hair was steel gray instead of its former dark brown.

Embarrassment flushed the thin skin of her chest as she realized she was staring and he was still waiting for her to speak. He shifted his feet and it was only then that she noticed the cane in his left hand.