Suddenly, Rio was hungry to find out as much as possible—not just about White Beak but all the gray whales. He turned his focus to the other photos in the glass cabinets. At first they were just black-and-white historical shots of Ocean Bay, but then there were a few more spectacular ones of the ocean—pods of dolphins leaping out of the water, huge turtles with wizened faces, and shoals of silvery fish.

He switched his attention to the final cabinet and immediately wished he hadn’t. The first photo was an awful one of a man carrying a harpoon gun and grinning wildly as a dead calf lay on the deck of his ship. A quick glance told Rio that the other photos were all similar.

Ships laden with dead whales, seas of thick red blood, whales cut up into pieces, and all accompanied by smiling people brandishing harpoon guns.

Rio felt sick.

Even though it was all many years ago, his throat tightened.

“It gets most people too,” his grandmother said, coming up behind him and standing by his shoulder. “Seeing them like this.”

“But why would they do that to them?!” Rio asked, turning to her. “Why?”

“Back then, people didn’t see whales the way we do now,” replied Fran, frowning. “They were a source of money for the whalers, who sold their meat and used the blubber for oil. Even whalebone was a precious commodity. Up until not that long ago, ladies even used to wear whalebone corsets.”

“B-b-but that’s not right!” Rio gasped, picturing his mom’s whale. “Humans can’t just go around killing them because . . . because they want to wear them!”

“Well, we don’t anymore,” said Fran. “Not as much anyway.”

“Not as much?!” A wave of emotions was tossing and turning in Rio’s chest, some so hot and fiery he could barely breathe. “You mean some people still hunt them?”

Fran pushed her glasses up her nose and gave him a strange, impenetrable look. “You’re so much like your mom when she was your age,” she said with a sigh.

“In what way?”

“She used to get upset about whale hunting too. Even went on a few protest marches,” she replied. “Though I told her it was a waste of time.”

“Why . . . why was it a waste of time?” he retorted angrily. “How could saving a whale ever be a waste of time?”

“Because what can one girl do?” Fran shrugged. “Especially one like her?”

Like her?

“Sometimes, I don’t even think she was fighting against the hunters,” she continued, rubbing her hands together tiredly. “She was fighting against herself. Your mother . . . your mom has been—”

CRASH.

Rio swung out a hand. He didn’t mean to. He didn’t even know he was doing it. Anything just to stop his grandmother talking. His arm shot out, and it banged against one of the glass cabinets next to the skeleton. The one with all the photos of the dead whales. It wobbled and quivered.