London wandered out onto the dock, towards the Rum Runner, and that’s when she saw him. Adam, alone, standing at the very end of the dock, gazing out over the lake. Searching for the lake shark. In spite of herself, she felt sorry for him. She was sure it wasn’t his choice to cancel the show. And no matter what a liar he was, he had still done so much good. How hard must it be to know that you can change the world, but some insurmountable obstacle is standing in your way?

London could still help him. She could still prove herself to him. If she brought the shark back then he would have to save it, no matter what “the man” told him he could or couldn’t do.

While Adam stood watching the lake, London slipped onto the Rum Runner. She stood in the cockpit, holding her breath, looking at all the knobs and buttons and levers. This is crazy, she thought. What am I going to do, motor off while he’s just standing there? Adam would be back any minute. In a moment of panic, she snatched the keys out of the ignition and jumped lightly back onto the dock, running as fast as she could all the way back to the hotel.

—

But I digress. This is not the real reason I am writing you, Mrs. Pelley. I realize that I am a teenaged girl and we are notoriously self-absorbed, so I can understand why you might think this letter was simply a way for me to vent my anger at being spurned by your husband, or a way to get back at him for hurting me. But this is not about me. This is about a shark, Mrs. Pelley. A sad, lonely, lost shark who is slowly dying in an inhospitable habitat – “weak, confused, and mercilessly hunted by locals who don’t understand not only the magnificence of this creature, but also the important scientific discoveries that could be made by studying its physiology,” according to your husband’s website. I was moved by your husband’s words, Mrs. Pelley. After all, it was his dedication to the cause that made me fall in love with him in the first place. And even if we couldn’t be together, I still felt I had a responsibility to try to help. I could go home and curl up with my broken heart, or I could do what I came here to do, and maybe in the process, become a woman who your husband would be proud of.

“Honey, are you okay in there?” London’s grandmother sticks her head in the cabin door.

“Yup. I’ll be right out.” London folds up the piece of paper she is writing on and stuffs it in the back pocket of her jeans. It’s stupid anyway, she thinks. As if I’m going to send a real, actual letter to someone.