SIX
June 4, 1965

At the fisherman’s wharf in town, Cora found the type of fish the dolphins had eaten. The label on the crate said butterfish. She bought 20 pounds with Blum’s money, then returned to the research center.

The building was clearly a home retrofitted to function as a research center, the outside a wide expanse of pink stucco, an empty stone fountain by the circular driveway, the flower beds and lawn neglected. Inside, the open dining room/kitchen had been converted into a workspace, shelves filled with thick science journals, a long worktable covered with files, typewriters and a reel-to-reel tape recorder. An empty 12-foot-long glass tank on wheels was shoved against one wall. On the far side were large windows and a screen door looking onto the veranda and the lagoon, the sea beyond.

She called out hello.

She heard something in reply and followed the sound through a door into the TV room. She adjusted her hearing glasses, pressing the earpieces a little tighter to her head.

A red-haired man in his late thirties lay on the couch watching TV. Badly sunburned, his skin was red and hot, his limbs arranged so they didn’t touch each other. The pink of the burn gleamed through the thin hair on top of his head.

(Most of the people in Cora’s family had dark hair and eyes and their skin had an olive tone. During the summer they could darken to café au lait. When she was a child, her dad used to say it was because the family had been living in Florida for enough generations that the blond relatives had died off. Her mom was the one to explain there was Seminole blood on both sides. The closest Cora had ever gotten to a sunburn was, after a full day in the sun, a pleasurable warmth in the skin.)

The color of this man’s skin, at the moment, was closer to a piglet’s than a human’s.

She stepped over to the TV and turned the sound all the way down, so she’d be able to hear. She said—I’m Cora.

To make sure she’d said it loud enough, she repeated—Cora.

Just his eyes moved, probably he was scared of adjusting his head against the rough couch material. His eyes blinked watery and embattled.—What are you doing here?

In the quiet room, no background sound, she could hear relatively well.—I just got hired.

He was sucking on something, making it harder to read his words.—By Blum? About time. Can you get the signal better?

—What?

His eyes flicked to the TV.—The antenna.

The television’s black and white scene was fuzzy, the sound filled with static. The moment she touched the rabbit-eared antennas the image cleared. Gunsmoke. The sheriff swung down from his horse, the flash of spurs, the sense of leather. A big man, he landed, adjusted his pants and the weight of his gun.

She twisted the antenna from left to right, trying to find the best reception, then let go. The scene disappeared into snow.