We set them up in the small office next to the director’s room. Neither of us said it out loud, but the choice carried its own logic. We didn’t know these people yet. A wall between sleeping spaces seemed smart, as a just-in-case.
I grabbed a stack of silver emergency blankets I had found last week and spread them across the cushions. Theycrinkled loudly as they unfolded, the thin, reflective material catching what little light drifted in from the hallway.
“They’ll stay warm at least,” I said.
Callan nodded.
“Better than anything they probably have right now.”
For a moment, we both stood there, looking at the small, makeshift sleeping area: two couches, a couple of emergency blankets—the end-of-the-world’s version of a guest room.
Callan checked his watch, then glanced toward the stairwell that led to the roof.
“Time,” he said.
I nodded.
He grabbed the marine radio and headed for the ladder.
“I’ll guide them in from the roof. You stay by the operations panel and open the tide gate. I’ll radio you when they’re close.”
“Got it.”
He climbed, and the sound of his boots on the metal rungs faded into the dark above.
I stood alone in the dim operations room beside the control panel, staring at the single switch that controlled the tide gate; my heart was racing.
Callan’s voice crackled through the handheld radio clipped to my belt.
“Bay City Aquarium to Mariner. I’ve got you on visual.”
A second voice answered.
“Copy that, Aquarium. We see the marina lights.”
Callan again, calm and steady.
“Bring her in slow, the tide channel’s narrow.”
I stepped closer to the panel, my hand hovering near theswitch.
Through the thick glass windows, I could see the dark ocean beyond the marina. A faint shape appeared on the water. The boat. It moved slowly, navigation lights flickering against the black waves like something finding its way home.
The radio crackled.
“Sloane.” Callan’s voice, calm but focused. “They’re approaching the channel.”
I took a breath.
“Standing by.”
A few seconds passed. The shape on the water grew larger, closer; the soft churn of an engine barely audible through the glass.
Then—
“Open the tide gate, Sloane.”
My hand flipped the switch.