Without her glasses, her voice boomed inside her quiet head. Without the hearing aids, she tended to speak too softly for others to hear.

The one word he said was easy to lipread—What?

She repeated her words, pushing the words out with her gut, trying to feel for the right level of sound in her mouth. Perhaps she was too loud now.

He said—I’ll talk to him. Did you keep the notes?

Vowels were always easier to hear than consonants, formed in the gut and not the mouth. Consonants were made in the front of the mouth and pushed out with a puff of air were the hardest: ch, sh, th, f, s, h. The lips partially closed while making the sounds, so it was hard to see what the tongue was doing.

And when she wasn’t wearing her hearing glasses like now, she missed more consonants. Language became a fast-moving crossword puzzle, with her guessing at the full word from just a letter or two.—What?

He looked at the notebook on the dock and spoke again. With his face away, she couldn’t hear any of it or lipread.

She guessed.—The notes? Yes, I kept them for a while, then got in the water instead.

He turned back, looked her over in the bathing suit.

(This was what men did. They chain-smoked and cradled mixed drinks while they eyed young women like they looked at brand-new Cadillacs, the mens’ expressions both appraising and hungry.)

He said a complex sentence. His chin was up, his attitude offended. The only words she was fairly sure of were notes and research.

She looked up at the building and veranda, with its beach umbrellas and patio furniture, bathing suits and towels draped everywhere. She asked—Research?

He flicked ash off the cigarette into the water. With it out of his mouth, the words were easier to understand.—We study dolphins.

—You’re scientists?

He nodded, irritated. He rarely seemed to blink.

She jerked her chin toward the notebook—That doesn’t contain a lot of information.

He cocked his head and waded over to the notebook. From the way he scanned the first page, it was clear he hadn’t read it before.

He flipped the page and muttered something. He didn’t look happy.

He turned back to her, gesturing at the lagoon. His eyebrows high, asking a question.

She took a guess—I couldn’t see them from above, so I got in the water.

He considered that, then turned back to the notebook and said something else.

She said—Excuse me?

He faced her, angry now. His cigarette still in his hand. She could see his tongue.—Am I not speaking clearly?

—I’m partly deaf.

Those bright eyes focused. A pause. No sympathy, but at least he was interested now. He spoke more deliberately.—Both ears?

—Left ear entirely. Right one partly. I have hearing aids, but I can’t wear them with wet hair. Your cigarette makes it harder for me to lipread.

He tilted his head, considering this, then ground the cigarette out on the dock. Now, he remained facing her when he spoke, left more space between the words. She could lipread more of what he said.