Chase returned, having shed his apron. ‘I told the shift supervisor I’m gonna be tour guide for you guys. He said that’s okay. Because I’m the shift supervisor.’ He crouched down in front of Forest. ‘I’ll be honest, little buddy, I have no fucking clue how to act around you. Sorry if I say the wrong thing.’ He stood up and sauntered off towards the aquarium entrance.

Chase was a great tour guide, although Mackerel wasn’t sure those were really the names of every single fish they passed. He had been through the aquarium enough times, and he found it more interesting to watch Forest. The boy was the perfect audience. He walked around with an open mouth. He was fascinated by the tank with the rays, the touch pool, the jellyfish, the octopus.

Cuthbert the Cuttlefish seemed to grab Forest’s attention the most. He stopped for a long time beside the tank, reading the description, watching Cuthbert change colours. He put his fingers on the glass and closed his eyes, as though listening.

Chase sidled up to Mackerel. ‘What’s he doing?’

‘I think he’s listening to the fish,’ said Mackerel.

Chase laughed. ‘No, seriously, what is he doing?’

Mackerel stayed silent.

And then they moved into the room with the seahorses, a large space with a number of cylindrical tanks, well lit and colourful. Here Forest’s wonder became almost tangible – he walked around light on his feet, like a breeze circling the room.

‘Our pièce de résistance,’ announced Chase. ‘The Land of the Seahorse.’

Forest approached the tank in the middle. The sign read: Weedy Seadragon.

These seadragons had long snouts and bodies that moved and waved like the seaweed. They were a dark red, with flashes of colour, blending in with the kelp.

‘They’re local, around here,’ said Chase. ‘Fascinating little creatures, the weedy seadragon, the way they blend into their environment. They’re masters of mimicry.’

Forest read the description slowly, then went down on his knees, holding both hands on the tank. He pressed his forehead against the glass and began to quietly cry.

‘What do we do?’ whispered Chase, looking alarmed.

‘We just let him be,’ said Mackerel.

Forest’s fingers were drawing patterns on the glass.

‘Alright, well . . . I better get back to the café.’ Chase squeezed Mackerel’s shoulder. ‘I was so sorry to hear about your brother, babe. He was a good man. Shacktown is a worse place without him. Let us know if there’s any way we can help.’ And he was gone.

Mackerel sat down cross-legged beside Forest.

‘You alright?’ said Mackerel.

Forest wiped his eyes and nose. ‘Yeah. I’m fine,’ he said softly. ‘I’m going to the bathroom. I’ll meet you back here.’

Mackerel watched him go, then looked back at the patterns he’d marked on the glass. They looked like a word.