Today, useful might mean blankets, weapons, batteries—a way to talk to the outside world.
The building felt different now; the empty halls stretched wide and bare without the noise of visitors and school kids to fill them.
Tank lights glowed softly in some rooms, casting the water in eerie blue and green waves that rippled across the ceilings. Fish moved through their worlds as if nothing had changed.
I rubbed my arms as I walked.
It wasn’t cold, but the silence sat wrong against my skin.
My real mission was bedding—anything that meant I didn’t have to share a blanket with Callan.
Heat crept up the back of my neck at the thought, not because I hated the idea, and that was the true problem.
Earlier kept replaying in my head—his hand between my legs, his fingers slow and confident, the way he’d watched me when I came apart, how he hadn’t asked for anything in return. No expectation, there were no smug looks or demands, as if giving me that had been enough.
It unsettled me in a way I had no name for. Peter would never have done that; Peter barely looked at me afterward.
Callan had simply held me.
I shook my head hard.
Focus, Sloane. Supplies, bedding.
I pushed through the door leading down to the fish quarantine level; the air down here always had an odor of faintly medicinal saltwater mixed with antiseptic and rubber gloves. This was the area where new fish were kept before being introduced to the main tank.
The lights were dim but still on, stretching long reflections across the smaller holding tanks lining the walls.
A few fish darted as I walked past, startled by the movement.
“Sorry,” I murmured.
Habit, even now.
I checked the cabinets along the far wall. Latex gloves. Salinity strips. Syringes for medication. Nothing close to what I needed.
I crouched and pulled open another drawer.
More medical kits, a few emergency thermal blankets, the thin foil kind used for hypothermia.
I grabbed those immediately and tucked them under my arm, not perfect, but better than nothing.
Something on the counter caught my eye.
At first, I thought it was simply another piece of equipment, but when I stepped closer, my heart started racing.
A marine radio, the kind boats used, that could reach Coast Guard channels and harbor frequencies.
“Oh, shit,” I whispered.
I brushed the dust off the panel with shaking fingers. It was wired into a portable battery pack.
Hope hit me so fast it almost hurt, if the Coast Guard were still operating. If anyone was broadcasting on emergency frequencies, it might mean information or rescue. A way out.
I scooped the radio up and pressed it against my chest alongside the crinkly foil blankets, already moving.
“Callan’s going to want to see this.”
I took the stairs two at a time, my footsteps ringing through the empty quarantine bay, heart hammering with something dangerously close to hope.