“Nothing promising.” Pursing her lips, she peers over the ship’s railing to Santa Cruz in the distance. Several dozen boats bob in the bay between us and the shore, clogging access to Puerto Ayora, the largest town in the Galápagos. She taps her cell phone against one open palm.

I narrow my eyes at her. “Walsh, what is going on with you? You’ve been acting weird this whole trip. You’re constantly on your phone and you’re more scattered than usual. Talk to me.”

She sets down her coffee. “Okay, fine. I—I’m not sure I want to be a massage therapist full time.”

“What else would you do?”

“I was thinking of doing something that combines yoga and massage. Like a wellness coach.” She frowns. “You’re making a face.”

“I’m not making a face.”

“Wellness coach is a thing, you know.”

“So is balloon artist.”

Walsh pushes her chair away from the table. Its heavy wood legs screech across the deck. “Forget it.”

I reach out and grasp her wrist. She jerks, and I quickly let go. “Wait, I’m sorry. I’m just not in your world of massages and wellness coaches and stuff. But if that’s what you want to do, then we’ll figure something out. I’m sure there are plenty of resources online. When we get back to Seattle, I’ll help you. We’ll come up with a plan, you’ll see.”

“That’s what you said before.” The words are so quiet I’m sure I misheard her. She turns to walk away.

“Hey, where are you going?”

Glancing at her phone, she stuffs it into the back pocket of her shorts. “Back to the cabin. We only have twenty minutes before the Zodiacs are going to shore, and I have to get ready.”

I push my chair back, intending to follow her, when my phone pings with a new email. It’s from James. I tap it open with a grimace.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Update

Where are you with your digital proposal? Send me an update on your ideas asap.

James P. Wilcox

Chief Marketing Officer

“Damn it,” I hiss. My thumbs hover over the screen.

I have ideas, sure. Lots of mediocre ideas. But nothing exceptional has coalesced yet. The answer is like fog—hanging resolutely on the horizon, but when I try to snatch it, it slips through my fingers.

Meanwhile, Graeme’s digital storytelling efforts are racking up likes and, according to Christina, extra bookings. The passengers on board love him; Donna is practically his new best friend. I saw them sitting together in the lounge last night, and she laughed—laughed!—at something he said.

If we were on a track, he’d be so far ahead he’d be lapping me by now.