Sean finally spots me and his shoulders relax. It’s so exaggerated I can practically see the tension wash out of him in a wave. He holds up a finger as if to say one minute. Just as he does, a tan, wrinkled masculine-presenting elderly person blows a metal object around their neck—a whistle—that makes the most ear-piercing shrill I’ve ever heard. Then they shout, “Terrible swimming, Nessan!” and Sean’s shoulders knot back up so hard they nearly reach his ears. “Let’s get our shit together, people!” the whistle blower continues, totally unaware of the havoc they’re wreaking on Sean’s emotions. “Do better or Fairfax High is going to mop the floor with us. Now get out of here.”

Sean hustles over to the side of the pool, grabs a blue bag, and throws it over his tensed-up shoulder. He opens a door in the fence and walks over to me, grabbing a towel and a very thin pair of shoes from his bag. Flip-flops. He pauses for a second to slip them on, then closes the distance between us, the shoes whacking against his feet with each step. I’m mesmerized by how fluid his movements are, surprised the whacking doesn’t throw him off balance. It’s as if he’s swimming in water when he’s just walking on concrete. His movements are fluid, and he doesn’t stop or stumble like I definitely would in those flip-flops.

“Hi, Ross.” The name sounds even shriller than the whistle. It wouldn’t have mattered if I’d chosen my human name from the list the Elders gave—moronic names like Ross, Chandler, Tia, Tamera, Hannah Montana. They’re all dumb, but the fact that nobody on land could pronounce my real name just reminds me how alone I am. Sure, there were a lot of people around when I went to grab coffee, but people were so focused on themselves. No one made eye contact, most had their heads in their phones, and any conversation they had was through tiny headphones poking out of their ears. Nobody had person-to-person interaction, and it bummed me out. Mer are constantly interacting, face-to-face, fin-to-fin. Having Sean look me in the eye now is an immense relief, but it still stings that it’s not a familiar face from home.

“You seem excited,” Sean says.

“I do?” I don’t know how my homesickness can be read as anything but depression.

“You can’t stop moving.” He points to my feet, and I realize I’m rocking back and forth on my toes. Then Sean taps one of the reusable cups I’m holding. “How many of those have you had?”

“Four.” I love the bitter taste of it. It reminds me of hot, liquid seaweed. “Why do you ask?”

Sean’s eyes go wide. “No wonder you’re so wired. Your blood has probably turned into caffeine at this point.”