Item by item, he put them to one side. “Now food? Do you have any?”

“Just these,” Rio said.

“Ginger cookies?”

The cookies were unopened, but even so, the scent of them wafted up, bringing his mother so clearly into the room, Rio almost expected to turn around and find her standing at his shoulder.

“They’re Mum’s favorite.”

“Well then,” she said, “we definitely need them.”

Marina had lent Rio her backpack, and he placed the cookies carefully on top. He was about to fasten the clasps when the picture of White Beak caught his eye. He picked it up. As the ocean roared approvingly in the background, Rio folded it up and inserted it into one of the pockets.

“Let’s take this too.”

Later that same evening, the house was deathly quiet apart from the sound of the ocean breathing in and out. Hanging out in his room, Rio had been checking his phone every few minutes. Nothing so far. Until finally the message flashed up.

Coast is clear!

He pushed back the covers, took a deep breath, and crossed his heart for luck. They had left his backpack by the back door, hidden in the shadows at the side of the house. The idea was to exit through the window to avoid passing the living room, where Fran was watching the news.

He hadn’t told his grandmother about his plan to steal the boat and save White Beak. She’d only tell him that he was wasting his time and, no doubt, try to stop him. But Fran was wrong. There was something he could do.

As he opened the window, immediately the sea air rushed in with fat, greedy gulps. Having a plan to save a whale was one thing. Putting it into action was another. With the warmth of the bedroom on his back, Rio trembled. Who did he think he was?

But then he thought of White Beak. He could do this. He had to. He climbed onto the ledge and then shuffled along to the farthest edge. All he needed to do was reach the next ledge and then shimmy down the drainpipe.

His foot stretched out. Nothing but air. Nothing. And then . . . his toe finally touched the other side.

“Made it!”

Rio half slid, half tumbled down the drainpipe, grazing his knee against the roughness of the wooden siding and bumping his elbow painfully. But finally, he was on the sand, where he let out a relieved sigh.

The backpack wasn’t heavy, but running along the edge of the water in the dark was much harder than it looked. Every so often, a wave would come along and soak him, or his feet would stumble on the loose sand, and once or twice, his ankle completely folded.

After about ten minutes, he had to stop. His chest heaved, and his lungs were ready to burst. Then, at a slower pace, he headed toward the bobbing lights of the boat masts. In the darkness of night, all he could hear was the slapping of waves and the eerie creaking of masts.