And suddenly, there it is, coming towards them. A dorsal fin, slicing through the surface of the water at breakneck speed, heading straight for their boat. Nana cuts the engine and they both run to the railing, watching as the fin submerges and a long, grey body glides beneath the boat.

“It’s the shark,” London breathes. A bull shark, named for his stocky shape, broad, flat snout, and aggressive behaviour, with a bite force of up to thirteen hundred pounds. Found in warm, shallow waters along coasts and in rivers, and known to survive in brackish and even fresh water. Sighted only as far north as the Mississippi River in Illinois.

Until now.

London and her grandmother race to the other side of the boat, staring incredulously as the fin resurfaces and swims away. “He’s beautiful, isn’t he?” Nana says eventually.

“Yes,” London whispers.

She tries to remember now how she imagined she was going to save him. Had she planned on jumping into the lake and wrestling him into the boat? Was she going to tie him up with a rope and tow him back to shore? She had pictured him weak and disoriented, near death, maybe even somehow understanding that she was rescuing him and submitting to her. But the more she watches the shark, the more she realizes he isn’t weak and disoriented, he isn’t near death, he isn’t sad or lonely, and he certainly isn’t about to let a bunch of northern Minnesotan redneck fishermen take him down. He is just a shark out having an adventure, doing something that he was probably told all his life that sharks weren’t supposed to do, but he did it anyway because he is his own shark and he doesn’t have to abide by, like, society’s rules or whatever. He probably didn’t fit in at home in the Gulf of Mexico, and he was sure there was a whole incredible world out there, just waiting to be explored.

This shark has the magic heart of a dragon.

They watch the shark for a few more minutes, the boat rocking silently in the breeze, until the fin disappears under the surface of the lake and doesn’t reappear. Behind them, London can hear the distant wail of a siren. She knows they don’t have much time left. “They’re coming for us,” she says.

“That’s okay,” Nana says, hands on the rail, gazing out across the lake to the horizon. “We’re almost there.”

Sure we are, thinks London. She takes the piece of paper out of her back pocket and begins to write.

Mrs. Pelley, this letter is an apology, but also a request. Tell Adam not to worry about the shark. The shark is doing just fine without him.

THIRTY-FIVE