I still can’t believe James okayed her coming along. Then again, when I presented him with two pages of bullet-pointed arguments for how a real-time, outside perspective would be valuable to me in assessing the strengths and weaknesses of the Galápagos itinerary, I didn’t leave him much room to say no.

James had peered at me over those wire-rimmed glasses, skin wrinkling around his watery eyes, and offered an enigmatic smile that made my skin prickle. But then he’d nodded, and said, “Don’t make me regret approving this, Henley,” and dismissed me from his office.

What’s really making my insides twitch right now, apart from that questionable sandwich I ate on the plane? Graeme. He’s MIA.

He wasn’t at the hotel in Guayaquil last night with the rest of the cruise-goers.

He wasn’t on the plane to San Cristóbal this morning.

And he’s certainly not in this Zodiac with me, Walsh, and the other dozen guests about to embark the ship.

Maybe he missed one of his connecting flights and he’s stuck in an airport somewhere? Wishful thinking makes my nerves crackle and I clutch the aggressively orange lifejacket looped around my neck.

“It is my first cruise as well,” the man beside me says. “Where are you from?”

“Seattle. You?” I ask automatically.

“Russia, originally. Saransk. But for fourteen years I live in Austin, Texas. I’m Dr. Kozlov, but you can call me Nikolai.” He reaches out a hand.

Tucking my elbow to my side, I shake it. Trying to shake hands with someone sitting right beside you is super awkward. And with the Zodiac speeding through the bay and sea spray leaping up to ping my backpack, I’m reminded that there are no seat belts, or even seats, on this craft, and I could really use my hand back now.

“Henley Evans,” I say. His palm is sweaty, and he doesn’t let go. I tug my hand out of his grip and surreptitiously wipe my palm on my shorts.

“Henley… like the shirt?”

He had to bring that up. In addition to being named after a drummer, my parents also inadvertently named me after a type of casual cotton wear. Hallelujah. “Um, yeah.”

“Mmm. It is my favorite shirt, you know.” Tipping his sunglasses down his nose, he pumps his eyebrows once.

Walsh giggles beside me.

“Nik, you’re bein’ rude.” The older man sitting next to him pops his head forward. He’s probably in his sixties, and he has a round, friendly face, neatly trimmed white hair, and an accent as deep as south Texas. “I’m Dwight Johnson. Pleased to meet you.”

We exchange introductions.

“What kind of doctor are you?” Walsh asks Nikolai, leaning across me to shout above the roar of the engine. I dig my elbow into her rib cage in a clear sign of quit encouraging him. She elbows me back.