And somewhere in the reservation system of the universe, a seat marked Kowalski had been held for her all along.
Now she was going alone.
Margo felt the weight of her father’s ashes in her backpack—a small wooden box he’d carved himself, back when his hands still worked. She was supposed to scatter them from the ferry’s top deck, just as the fort came into view. He’d visited once in 1984 and never stopped talking about the nurse sharks in the moat. dry tortugas ferry reservations
The wind took the ashes instantly, swirling them over the gun deck, past the nesting frigatebirds, out toward the coral reefs her father had described in a letter he never mailed. And somewhere in the reservation system of the