It’s true: everywhere I’ve lived has always been noisy and jammed. Here I can feel my breaths, my pulse slow. The sun arcs and spreads beneath the flat horizon. It feels like the last days of us. Whatever we are.

Carlos puts his arm around me, kisses the top of my head. “You are very special, Rania. Don’t waste that.”

Then he lets his arm go. The air blows between us. “We should get back to Kamal,” he says.

As we trudge back to the parking lot, I feel Carlos watching me. His eyes follow my hands as I grab the clump of keys. “That lawyer lady have any news for you?” he asks.

“Nope.”

“You going to find out about your father?”

“Why do you care?” I ask.

His eyes shimmer. “I do care, Rania.”

“I don’t want to talk about that,” I mumble.

We get back in the car and drive in glum silence. I feel as if I’m breaking apart. Carlos looks miserable too.

The first Saturday in August, when Carlos is supposed to sketch, they predict lousy weather. Not raining, but the sky looks like an old washcloth leaking dirty gray water. We decide to do the whale-boat tour since Carlos figures there won’t be many tourists in P-town. The boat is only half-full and we stand against the rail, mist drops spitting into our faces. The prow churns through choppy swells, its motion surging up from my feet through my legs.

The tour guide calls out to show us a few geysers of white foam in the distance. Kamal jumps up and down, excited. “Look, Rania! Look, Carlos!”

Carlos hoists Kamal up to see better.

“Careful,” I warn. The rocking is giving me a sour taste at the back of my throat.

Carlos smiles. He doesn’t look as tired, the way he’s been these last days. Summer has streaked his orange thatch of hair to blond. They are pointing and laughing.

“Another one!” Kamal squeals.

“It’s a mother and baby,” Carlos comments.

I nudge closer. Our shoulders bump, sending tiny bits of static through my arm. He hands me the binoculars the guide gave us. I squint and can just see the rounded back of the mother whale, then a little frothy spurt beside her. I hand them back.

“This is fun,” he says. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” I tease.

He grins. “Impaciente. Right?”

I smile. “Sorry for the other day. When you asked about my dad.” I look away. “It’s kind of hard to talk about that stuff.”

We stay at the rail, even as my stomach keeps cramping. I want to throw up but I make it back to shore. Back on land the rocking ripples up through my knees, as if we’re still on the water. We eat but the food sits like a heavy balloon under my ribs.