Wonderful, thinks Adam. She sent a fan letter and got a publicity photo in return, and now she thinks we’re best friends. “Great,” he says. “Always nice to meet a fan.” He pulls out his phone, hoping she will take the hint and just go away.

“London Parker-Stewart.” She gazes at him so hopefully that he begins to feel uncomfortable. “From Thunder Bay.” Then, in a smaller, quieter voice, she says, “I’m Ponyo.”

“Okay, then,” Adam says, nodding. He gives her what he hopes is an end-of-conversation-type smile.

Her face collapses into an expression of such crushing disappointment that for a moment Adam wonders if her name really should mean something to him. He sees her lip start to wobble. Oh great, she’s going to cry. He does a furtive sweep of the room to see if anyone is watching.

Then she takes in a deep breath and her face changes. “You’re here for the shark rescue, right?” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’d like to volunteer. I could help you with some of your equipment, or running tests, or something…”

Adam sighs inaudibly. She must have seen him on the news. He knew that news clip was a bad idea, but his publicist said that they needed to drum up some local support. “Actually, London, usually the volunteers just do onshore stuff. Getting coffee for the crew, that kind of thing.”

“What kind of coffee do you like?” she asks. “I think there’s probably a Starbucks around here somewhere, and I know there’s a Caribou Coffee down in Canal Park. I’ve never had their coffee but I know their hot chocolate is really good. I can do anything. I’m just here with my grandmother, she won’t mind.” From the mouth of a more, well, American sixteen-year-old, her words might have come across as flirty, even sexual, but she seems so much younger than he remembers sixteen-year-olds being, so much more innocent.

“Actually, I don’t think we’ll be going out tomorrow,” Adam says. “High winds.”

“Oh.” She uncrosses her arms and makes a little note on her clipboard. A fucking clipboard. Who, in the age of smartphones and tablets, laptops and iPods, who on earth carries a fucking clipboard? But there it is, sturdy and utilitarian, with its rigid brown back, reams of three-hole-punched blue-lined paper clipped under the stiff, shiny metal clip. She even has a pen, a straight-up pen, tied with a piece of string and hanging from a hole in the top.

“What about the day after that?” she asks. “I’m really flexible.”

I bet you are, thinks Adam before he mentally slaps himself. “Probably not, London.”

“The wind’s going down to ten knots tomorrow.”