Page 5 of Shark Bait

“It’s probably for the best you don’t,” he says.

“Yeah, that’s what I tell myself.”

Shark nods. “I understand.”

“Do ya?”

A nod again, and he looks up from inspecting the phone. He holds my gaze, and our individual damaged parts flash at each other. I see his, he sees mine, and while we both acknowledge the hurt in each other, we also know not to ask about it. Our damaged parts are connecting, shaking hands even, allowing us to carry on with the day as two strangers who are stuck in the middle of the sea together.

Because of those parts that others won’t see, we’re able to survive each other today. I really think God sent him to help me, and I won’t spit in the face of good fortune.

When Shark doesn’t answer me, I turn away. “Never mind. You don’t have to tell me anything. I’ll be over here making pancakes. You go on and do what you do.” I gather the pancake ingredients.

“It’s a burner phone,” Shark says after a while.

I start mixing the batter. “What’s that mean? Old?”

“Yes. But a good oldie, since this here”—he points at a narrow metal antenna—“means it’s not only untraceable, but also self-destructive. There’s a trigger inside it that makes it go off.”

I pause mixing the batter. “Like it can explode?”

“Mmhm.”

“Okay, well, if it can explode, why aren’t you throwing it overboard? Unless we decided we’re back to being suicidal, in which case, I must tell you that ship sailed past us up there on the deck. You spared me, and I’ve already decided I’m having my baby.”

Shark glances at my belly before his gaze finds mine again. “Good idea.”

“Thanks. How about you? Whatcha gonna do?”

“I’ll take the phone apart,” he says slowly as if speaking to a technologically daft person. “See what makes it tick and how Ican use it. Who it’s for. Who it came from. Do you know who might’ve given it to Fis?”

I turn away from him and fire up the stove. “Maybe it’s Fis’s.”

“It’s not. Hence the tracker that people in my line of work use for emergencies.”

“What’s your line of work?” As soon as it comes out of my mouth, I take it back. “Never mind. I don’t want to think about Fis. Good riddance and all.”

“Fair enough,” he says.

“What if it self-destructs?” I grab the pan and drizzle some oil on it.

“It won’t.”

“You can’t know that.” I scoop out the batter from the bowl and pour it into the pan.

“I can.”

Hand on my hip, I sass him. “You sound mighty sure about that. How can you be sure it won’t blow us to high heaven?”

“I’m not going to heaven, that’s how.”

I want to tell him he’s wrong about that and that it’s not up to him, but I say, “Ya know what I mean.”

“I’m sure because I’ve got skills.”

I flip the pancake and suggestively wag my eyebrows. “What kinda skills are we talking about?”

“The kind required for not shooting you when you ask too many questions.”

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